


No Matter The Wreckage

by origamibirds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, F/M, Fluff, Major Character Injury, Rose is a quidditch WHIZZKID, Scorp is a puppy, Slow Burn, it's bound to turn up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5757028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/origamibirds/pseuds/origamibirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Scorpius and Rose fall in love - but it takes a bet, multiple broken bones, a broken heart, a House Cup final, and a ball for it to happen. Because hearts want what they want, no matter the wreckage.</p><p>(meanwhile, Albus quietly takes over the world with his wild botany powers, Hugo regrets his life choices, Draco is being a Better Father TM, and everyone hugs)</p><p>Canon divergent, as it was written before The Cursed Child was a thing :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and this is how it starts

**Author's Note:**

> i am very confused by this fic because i started in the middle and now i have to stick it all together. any help with that is gratefully received - especially if it comes in the form of feedback, tea, or stroking my head whilst i make pitiful mewling noises. 
> 
> also, the plot should turn up later. it promised.

Scorpius was not a big one for mornings.

They started when the wristwatch that he and Al had enchanted spewed out obscene noises and skittered under the furniture. Covers were thrown off, voices – rough with sleep – muttered about this being _the_ morning that the bloody thing was decimated, the watch was found, prodded harshly with a wand until it _shut up, Merlin’s beard._

Then it was sports kit on, a jog by the lake, a chat with that Ravenclaw who seemed to have roughly the same routine – simple as clockwork. He left the age spent in front of a mirror to his girlfriend, whose power over contours and lip-lines were more impressive than any amount of enchanted watches that Scorp could come up with.

Especially _this_ watch.

“Make it _stop.”_ Potter begged pitifully from the other side of the dorm, splayed out across the bed with his face buried in a pillow. “I will give you a pound of Bertie Bott’s if you smash that thing, Malfoy. We made a mistake. We created a _monster._ ”

The stone floor was cold under Scorpius’s feet when he swung them out of bed, and he shuddered.  “Which way did it go?” He asked, plucking his wand from on top of his bedside table and blearily wiping sleep from his eyes. The multi-faceted windows did little to keep the March winds at bay, and Scorp was definitely considering writing to his mother and asking for a pair of fleecy pyjamas. Just like the pair he'd had when he was eight.

“Please tell me that you’re making fun of the blind kid and don’t actually expect help.”

“ _Albus.”_

A hand was stuck in the air and waved in the general direction of the dresser. The high keening of the watch was reaching its crescendo, and Scorp leapt in the general direction with as much coordination as the newly-woken eighteen-year-old could muster. 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Each plea was punctuated with the wand being stabbed under the massive hunk of mahogany, and finally,  _finally,_ silence enveloped the small dorm room once more. Scorpius heaved a sigh of relief, rocking back onto his heels. The innocuous watch lay in his hands. And, just like every morning, Scorp considered smacking it with a book. Or a bookcase. And, just like every morning, the quietened watch was tossed back on top of the dresser, it’s execution adjourned.

“I bloody love you.” Potter mumbled into his pillow, pulling the covers back up to his chin. He was snuggling back under the duvet, black hair tufty and sticking up all over the place. “Have I mentioned that?”

“Yesterday morning, about the same time.” Scorpius replied easily, grinning as he started gathering his kit together. “You done that Potions homework for later?”

 “Maybe.”

“Can I have it?” Scorp asked, tugging his shirt over his head.

“I bloody hate you. Do your own work, mate.”

“Cheers, Al!”

“Enjoy your run, you arse. I hope the squid eats you.”

 

The dew was fast to soak through Scorp’s trainers. Spring in Scotland is brisk, to say the least, and it took an entire lap of the lake before he could feel his fingers. Mist rose from the water in tendrils as it burnt off, the March air doing little to warm it through. Scorpius ran with his the rhythmic thudding of his footfalls for company, not one for music. Any other time, and he was a music aficionado. But when he was running, he liked the quiet. He loved the feeling of his own heartbeat, boasting of it's existence in his ears and thudding at his pulse points.  He didn’t run to stay fit, not really. He ran to calm down. He ran to wake up. He ran because his life was brilliant and busy and boisterous, and this half hour in the morning was his piece of serenity.

There had been a time when it all got too much. There had been a time when his father’s grey eyes had taken in his bruised knuckles and split lip, and there was a time when his father taught him that counting to ten can save a lot of unnecessary bloodshed. Because Scorp was a talented athlete and a calculating quidditch player, but he wasn’t good with his fists. He was lithe and fast, and had a habit of picking fights with lads three sizes bigger than him.  _Let's see your arm, Malfoy! Death Eater scum!_

His father had turned over his battered hands in his cool ones, and said “You get it from your mother, Scamp.”

And Scorpius had seen his mother flash him a proud, predatory smile and known it to be true.

 

He cleared the woods just as Hanks from Ravenclaw appeared at the fork in the path. The castle wasn't much further ahead, coming into view against the daunting black clouds.

“Morning,” Hanks called, speeding up to match Scorpius’s pace. “You’re early today.”

“The watch buggered off under the dresser at six,” Hanks had been regaled with tales of the Fucking Watch since they had become accidental running partners, three summers ago. “Definitely won.”

“Still ticking, though?”

Scorp laughed, taking a minute to catch his breath before replying. “Unfortunately. Ready for the match next Sunday?”

Hanks made a show of flexing a burly muscle. He was built for beating – Thick shouldered, no apparent self-preservation instinct, and an absolute powerhouse. He’d clapped Scorp across the back after a particularly tough run last winter, and the blond had felt it reverberate through his bones. Probably through his great-grandchildren’s bones as well. “Weasley got you training hard?”

“Pah, as if. We make all of our own decisions on the team. Completely autonomous. Rose just, you know, represents.”

Hanks nodded slowly, but there was a knowing look in his eye. “Well, we’ll see how that autonomous approach works next weekend, shall we?”

“We shall!” Scorp replied as they slowed, footsteps echoing around the courtyard. He took a mock swing at the stockier boy. “I’ll have you on your knees, Hanks!” 

The Ravenclaw simply smiled a slow, genial smile. “Put your money where your mouth is, Malfoy.”

Looking up from where he was balancing on one leg, glute stretched out, Scorp’s eyes lit up. “You want a bet?”

“I’ll take everything you’ve got, mate.”

“I’m only offering ten galleons.”

“Sixty.”

“Fourty and a piece of this,” Scorp gestured at his body, shaking out his leg as he swapped the stretch to the other side.

“Fifty, but without a piece of _that_.”

“Deal!”

 

It stayed crisp and cold for the next two days. Scorpius circled the pitch with one hand on his broom and the other one pressed between his arm and his side. They all had warming charms cast over their kit, but the chill was pervasive and biting. The team were spread out around him, the Gryffindor colours of red and gold partially concealed under mountains of scarves and woolly jumpers. Game day would be different. On game day, they would be an inescapable _force_ of team spirit.

But for now? Now they were just cold.

“Finnegan, take a left! Faster than that! I could have put that bludger straight between your shoulder blades!” Rose Weasley knew quidditch. More than that, she knew how to win. Scorpius dipped his broom, pulling his free hand out of hibernation and wrapping it around the handle as he gathered speed. The role of Captain would always be much sought after, but when a fifteen year old Rose had dared to speak up and go “Well, what if we-” during a team meeting three years ago, it was like a prophecy had been laid down. Brains and that mile-wide mischievous streak made a dynamic coupling. Her name had been put forwards unanimously when Lupin had graduated.

“Malfoy!”

The broom protested underneath Scorp as he pulled up sharp. “Yes, dea-Weasley?”

“ _Why_ are you flying at the ground as though you have hell hounds on your tail?”

Scorp tried to lean nonchalantly back on his broom, but his ass was numb and his hands were numb and he settled for an ungainly flop instead. “Practising, boss.”

Weasley raised an eyebrow. “For the suicide squad?”

“Pah, no. Between you and me, Rosie, there’s a lot riding on this match.”

He could actually see the thought _“Are you for real, right now?”_ as it drifted through Rose’s brain. “Scorp,” She said, slowly. “the rest of the team are managing to handle the pressure of the House Cup _without_ flying _straight at the ground_. Do you need to talk to someone?”

“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just call me unbalanced. No, this is so much more than the House Cup. I’ve got a bet with Hanks from Ravenclaw.”

“Giant, brawny?”

“The very same.”

Even from six foot away, swaddled in an enormous scarf, Scorp could see Rose’s eyes turn calculating. If anyone understood the utter importance of an inter-house bet, it would be her.  “What are the stakes?”

“A hot piece of this,” Scorp gestured at his wool-swathed self. Rose just rolled her eyes. “Fine. Fifty galleons.”

“That’s _it?_ That is causing you more stress than the House Cup?!”

Scorp shrugged, as if to say _“What can you do?”_

Weasley turned her broom, using her spare hand to stuff her ginger mane firmly under her hat. “Fine, fine. Do what you’ve gotta do. But get those turns sharper, or I’ll be having a piece of _that_ ” she eyed him meaningfully, “for breakfast.”

Scorpius raised his eyebrows gleefully, “Why, Rosie, all you had to do was ask. But I am in a committed relationship, so you’d have to share.”

“Gah!” Rose threw her hands up in the air, “Die in a hole! But after the match!”

 

That committed relationship of Scorp’s was waiting for him when he came out of the changing rooms. She was leaning against the wall, a picture of sleek black hair and painted burgundy lips. The first time that Scorpius had seen her, he had been up to his elbows in suds, chipping at the noxious bottom of a charred cauldron. The first time that he had seen her, the fact that he was in detention and she was a fucking prefect had not deterred him in the slightest. Every girl liked a bad boy, right? And he was _bad._ He was so, so _bad._ He was-

“You’ve got something on your face.” Albus had said, cutting through the fog that was _her_.

“Hmm?” Scorpius realised he’d been staring when Al reached over and closed his jaw by hitting him upside the chin.

“Yeah, it’s like a smudge? Or complete fucking worship? Can’t tell in this light.”

“Asshole.” Scorp had said, not listening, watching _her_. Ravenclaw’s royal blue did these _things_ to her Hispanic features which did _things_ to Scorpius’s features. “Do you know her? That girl?”

Potter, that _bastard_ , gave a cursory gaze and just shrugged one shoulder. “Do I look like a copy of _Which Wizard?_ Look, we finish this, we get off early, we get lunch. _Focus.”_ This last part had been said with a shove to Scorpius’s shoulder. Which, due to the somewhat whimsical legs of his chair, sent him crashing to the floor with a yell. He had lain there for a moment with his eyes closed, ignoring Al’s cackling, when a pair of feet came to a halt by his head.

“Oh my God, are you okay?!”

And as Scorp had looked up into the darkest eyes that he had ever seen, he was reminded to thank Albus for being the best wingman on the planet.

“Guys, practice tomorrow, same time, okay? There’s a hell of a lot riding on this one!” Weasley’s tone brokered no arguments, but the team was too hyped to give her anything other than multiple cases of “You got it!” “Are you kidding? I _love_ freezing myself onto a broom!” (“Attitude, Finnegan.”)

Scorpius jogged over to join Naya, tugging on the end of her scarf. “Sorry I kept you, been here long?”

Naya stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips against Scorpius’s cheek, “Maybe - Make it up to me?”

Six months later and he still wasn’t used to the way she made him see stars.  “Uh, duh.”

 

That night, the corridors were deserted. The lanterns and torches threw fluid shadows against the stonework of the castle, and owls called to each other across the grounds. In the Ravenclaw tower, the lights were muted and, as always, the atmosphere reminded Scorpius of the library. It had the same feeling of quiet, of concentration. At this time, there weren’t the students debating the finer points of the barbaric acts of Salem, of the true location of Babylon. There was no manic scratching of quills. All was still. And, much like he did in the library, Scorpius felt at least a little sorry for what he was sure could be seen as defacing the whole studious spirit of the place.

And yet, Scorp could have sworn that the eagle glared at him as he gently eased the door closed behind him. Not to be intimidated, he gave it a jaunty wave before setting off across the castle.

“Mung beans."

Nothing. The Fat Lady breathed out another almost-snore.

Moving closer to the portrait, Scorpius tried again. “ _Mung beans.”_

There. The Fat Lady cracked an eyelid open, and eyed Scorpius up and down. “I’ve half a mind to leave you there.” she said, her voice sleep-ridden. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Scorpius offered up an apologetic shrug, because _yes_ , he did, and _yes_ , he knew exactly what kind of a person came slinking home at three a.m. The Fat Lady humphed, but with a final scowl, the portrait swung open.

“Much obliged.” Scorp said archly, climbing through the hole.

Much like the Ravenclaw common room, the lights were dim in here. He recognised Simmons’s tabby cat curled up on top of the chess board, and the copper weather vane spun slowly in the corner of the room.

And there, on the sofa in front of the fireplace, lay Weasley. It pulled him up short. She had her knees tucked against her chest, her cheek pressed against the velvet arm of the chair. 

Scorpius was increasingly aware of the noise he was making as he padded over, trying to keep the weight on the balls of his feet. Her hand was curled loosely around her wand. On the floor, a cardboard map of the quidditch pitch lay, complete with holographic hoops and stands. Projected Gryffindor players flew aimlessly without Weasley to guide them, the flags on the stands blew in a breeze that wasn’t there. Scorp knelt next to Rose’s head, biting his lip when the floor creaked under the movement.

Strands of red hair had fallen into Rose’s face, and fluttered every other second as she huffed out a breath. Scorpius reached out to brush them away, but his hand stilled, hovering above her face. The gesture felt strangely intimate, and he put it down to the low lighting and the delicate line of Rose’s jaw. Scorp wandered how he would feel if he woke up to a strange bloke fiddling with his hair and grimaced.

He looked around for a moment, wondering what to do. He’d never make it up to the girl’s dorm carrying her – the trick stair was a viscous foe. There was a patchwork throw draped over the back of the sofa.  Scorp spread it carefully over Weasley’s prone figure, gut twisting at the goosebumps dotting her bare arms. And maybe the sudden hitch in Rose's breathing, the way she curled the blanket under her arms - maybe it brought about a surge of affection in Scorpius.  But the cat was asleep, Rose was asleep; There was no one to snitch on him if he tucked the blanket around the girl a little more firmly. Rose’s wand was pulled from her freckled fingers and, together with the closed pitch layout, deposited on the nearby coffee table.

One last look around the common room told Scorp that there was little else for him to do, and he turned to go. But as he did so, he felt smaller fingers grasp his. He stayed stock still for a moment, surprise and warmth warring. The moment ended, and Rose’s arm fell limply by her side again.

“Sweet dreams, Rosie.” Scorpius breathed.


	2. some legends are told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which rose wakes up, albus is 500% done with them all and i project my love of telling outrageous lies to eleven year olds onto scorpius.

When Rose woke up at home, she woke up with Mungo, the family’s colossal cat, weighing her feet down, and cutting off the circulation. Her parents were not great believers in putting cats on diets. On the occasions when Rose woke up at home, she woke to find the sunlight streaming in through her crooked window light. It caught the glass mobile that hung from her ceiling and sent bright reflections skittering and scattering across her room.

This morning, Rose woke up to feel a similar weight on her legs, which was disorientating. She wasn’t angled right, for her bed at home or her bed in the dorm, and that was frankly disturbing. The room was bathed in darkness, and she had a crick in her neck. Rose lay there for a moment, gathering her wits. Reaching out blindly, she felt a hard, flat surface. It was inanimate, so she supposed that was a bonus. Add to that the relief that it wasn’t slimey, and Rose decided that she was on to a winner. Her searching fingers felt smooth, thin wood and she sagged in relief, curling her hand around her wand.

“ _Lumos._ ”

Soft white light told her two things. One, common room sofa. Two, fully dressed.

“Oh, thank God.” Rose murmured, throwing her arm over her eyes and collapsing back against the sofa. Because her mother was nothing if not protective, and Rose had had the dangers of waking up in an unfamiliar place drilled into her her entire life. She tucked her feet up on the table, pulling the blanket around her. Her feet nudged something, and she gazed at it sleepily. Her charmed pitch map, a present from her aunt when she was given the Captaincy. What was that doing ther- Oh.

Rose remembered snapshots; Amy Fletcher shaking her head and handing her a butterbeer “Rose, I love you, but I’m tired. I’ll see you upstairs.” The fire flickering across the pitch as she moved the opaque chaser figures into a Holyhead Formation, the fact that she was only doing this because she _really_ didn’t want to finish the transfiguration assignment that was lurking in her bag, and if she made it to midnight then she might just get it out – and then not much more. So she fell asleep. But Rose knew from experience that she did not cover herself with a throw. She was more the “Sudden Sleep Of The Dead.” type.

Shrugging, Rose ran a hand through her tangled mane of red hair and stood up. She didn’t really want to deal with Amy’s “Out _all_ night, were we?” accompanied by a wink. Rose had barely even _dated_ since last year, Merlin. And hadn’t _that_ been fun.

As she folded the throw back over the sofa, Rose realised that there was another _something_. She dropped the throw like it was on fire, like it scalded her hands.

Without a backwards glance, she all but leapt for her dorm and for Amy’s ridicule.

Because nothing good could come of a 6”3 shadow, and “ _Sweet dreams, Rosie.”_

* * *

March played the rest of it’s hand that day. The castle grounds, which had glinted prettily in the last of the spring frosts, were battered and saturated by driving Scottish rain. Gale force winds howled around the turrets. Students rushed from lesson to lesson with books clutched to their chests, parchment and scarves flapping violently in the breeze.

Albus was not good with weather.

With people, yes. With books, yes. With plants, _yes again._

But never weather.

“This is a bloody nightmare.” He moaned at breakfast. Scorpius had been engrossed in describing the giant squid to a first year, and barely reacted. Albus tore his attention from where debris rushed past the window, caught in the wind, to throw a disparaging glance at his friend. Of _course_ Scorp didn’t notice, too busy flailing his arms and sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth. Idiot. The first year had an expression of two parts amusement, one part horror.  Albus did not care.

“Scorp.”

“Then we all watched as this, this _tentacle_ , it came up out of the lake and it _curled_ around the poor bastar-”

“Scorp!”

“Sorry, mother. This poor _fella’s_ leg.”

Cue: gasp. Cue: wide eyes. Cue:

“ _And then?”_

Albus was going to turn to drink. He could make this into a drinking game easily – Drink every time Scorpius gets _so involved in his own story that he forgets he made it up._ Albus was not the kind to get bad results. He studied hard, he was naturally bright - His liver would be the first in his family to properly fail. Oh, woe.

“Then,” Scorp continued, and Albus speared a sausage and prepared to wait it out. There was clearly no stopping him. “It got tighter, and tighter, and _tighter,_ and it _pulled._ Straight into the lake.” Albus watched emotionlessly as Scorpius gestured wildly, splaying his hands in the air. “He was never the same. Isn’t that right, Al?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Albus said, deadpan. “Every word you say is true.”

The first year sat with his hands curled around his goblet, and Al could practically see the cogs turning as he tried to work out whether it was true or not. Why shouldn’t it be true? Scorpius _Malfoy_ said so, and he has a scar from fighting a _dragon._ Albus wanted to chip in – Ah, yes, but _Scorpius_ Malfoy said so, and he has a scar from playing with his _dog when he was ten._

“Did he die?” The kid was clearly hedging his bets, trying to work out his angles. Albus took a bite of his sausage, respect growing. Smart move.

“Merlin, no.” Scorp sounded almost bored, but there was a gleam in his eye. “O’Connor had been scrubbing out the cauldrons – have you had to do that, yet?” At the first year’s muted head shake, Scorpius continued: “It leaves this stench to your hands. It’s all the cra- rubbish that gets burnt onto them. So many potions that died a death. Anyway, the squid is old, it’s picky. It spat O’Connor right back out. He tasted foul.”

The first year leant back on the bench, clearly impressed “Whoa.”

“Yeah. Slytherin threw this enormous party for him. They called him the Squid Kid.”

“Slytherin?”

“That’s right.”

The first year narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said he was a Hufflepuff.”

“Oh yeah, yeah. He was dating a Slytherin?”

“Liar.” And the first year flounced off, but Al knew that he would be telling all of his friends just what _Scorpius Malfoy_ had told him at breakfast.

Scorpius watched the kid go for a minute, before turning back to Albus. There was a grin on his face, and it made Al long for his bed. “You know, I thought I had him!”

“You’ve got to keep your facts straight.” Albus chided, reaching for the pumpkin juice. “Kids are smart, Malfoy.”

“And so small. Were we that small?”

“It’s likely, yes.”

“Merlin’s beard.” 

* * *

 

The day was going from good to better. The first lesson had been herbology, and Professor Longbottom had actually clapped him on the shoulder. Scorp would never forget the way that his professor had paused the first time that he had had to address him as “Malfoy”, and he suspected that the more he grew to look like his father, the more his professor had to actively remind himself that this was _Scorpius_ and not _Draco._ Which was fair, Scorpius thought that his father went through the same kind of confusion. Sometimes he just addressed Scorpius by the labrador’s name absentmindedly, and Scorp would “woof” back at him until his father realised, looked over at him and mouthed “Sorry.”

Lunch was spent with his arm around Naya’s shoulders until she had to shoot off somewhere important, probably, and the rest of it was spent inventing alternative rules for quidditch. Scorpius was wrapping Albus’s lunch in napkins, because the idiot always forgot to eat when he stayed behind to help Professor Longbottom clear away. Potter got this _fanatical_ look in his eye, and could tell you about sixty different ways to poison somebody with a single plant. Which was great, and yes, good passion, nice – but it did mean that Scorpius never ate or drank anything that Albus produced. And Albus just never ate. Period.

“Maybe on dragons?” Rose suggested thoughtfully. She was sitting opposite Scorpius, and every so often he would look over and catch her looking at him quizzically. And every time, he raised a questioning eyebrow at her. And every time, she just shook her head and shrugged as if to say “I’ve forgotten.”

He did wonder just what she thought she’d remembered. Because tucking your friend in when you find them passed out on a sofa is a _totally normal_ thing to do. Scorpius would have done it for anyone. He would definitely have done it for Albus on the condition that he could draw something on Potter’s face. Like stubble, because sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind. That being said, he wouldn’t be kicking Albus under the table every time he tried to help himself to Scorpius’s lunch.

“Quidditch, fine, but _underwater_.” Sean Finnegan exclaimed, with a click of his fingers. He leant forwards enthusiastically, red and gold tie dangerously close to going in his soup. “No brooms, no dragons-” Hugo Weasley looked scandalised. “But _kelpies_ ”

“Been done.” Rose said airily, tearing a piece off of her bread roll. She waved it around, “But here’s the thing – they didn’t think about air. They enchanted the balls to fly –swim, whatever – they planted hoops, they even waterproofed everyone’s kit. But they forgot air.”

Scorp narrowed his eyes as he tried to remember. There had been his mother smiling into her tea, and his father had been reading the paper and he _knew_ this story.  “Wasn’t that the Norwegians?”

“Yeah, think so.”

“Didn’t they have problems with hypothermi- Get away, Weasley! You have your _own!”_

Rose grinned around the piece of soup-soaked roll that she’d shoved into her mouth and shrugged, eyes shining. There was no shame to her, Scorp thought. Absolutely no shame. “Were you raised by _wolves?”_ He demanded. “What was your mother _like_?!”

“Hey!” Hugo objected.

“Sorry, Hu. No offence, mate. But seriously. Wolves.”

Rose swallowed and threw Scorpius a charming smile that he scoffed at. “Oh come now, that’s no way to treat your captain. Show some respect.”

“Make me.”

Raising her eyebrows and leaning across the table, Rose locked eyes challengingly with the blond. He was lounging in his seat with the kind of nonchalance that lions exhibited – lazy, flickering eyes that took everything in. “You’re on.”

Scorpius sat up in his seat, and Rose was reminded just how ridiculously tall he was. He opened his mouth to argue, but his foot grazed her leg under the table again and he leant back, hackles down. _What was that?_ The world rushed back into definition. The clamour of the dining hall sounded abruptly louder and clear as a bell, and Scorp shook his head, sure that his ears were ringing. Next to him, Hugo and Sean had already moved on to the merits of kelpies over brooms, and the clatter of knives on plates and goblets on tables and _chatter_ left Scorpius feeling disorientated for a moment.

The only one who seemed equally nonplussed was Rose. She’d sat back in her seat, cheeks flushed, and for the first time since they had sat down to lunch – her hands were still.

* * *

The day went from good to better, until about two o’clock. The weather was getting bleaker, and Scorpius was making his way down to the dungeons for potions with Albus. Albus, who hated weather. Albus, who had insisted that they go the long way around so as to avoid going anywhere _near_ the weather. The world still wasn’t sitting quite right on it’s axis, so Scorp went along with it without comment.

Seeing Scorpius and Al walk together was as common as seeing spiders scuttle across the pale stone of the castle. Usually, Scorpius stood four inches taller than Albus. Today, however, he stood ten.

“Which colour should the potion turn just before you add the powdered unicorn horn?” Scorpius was saying. It was absent-minded, his focus on his feet. He was slowly circling his wand, and as a result of it, he was drifting six inches above the ground, alongside Albus.

“Mottled grey.”

“Only if we make it, mate. I said ‘ _should’_.”

“Not mottled grey.”

“You are going to _ace_ this test.”

Albus allowed for that with a humble shrug. They passed Eustice the Emphatic’s portrait, and he gave them a determined wave, moustache waggling. Al waved back for the both of them, because Scoprius was concentrating on his feet again, tongue between his teeth.

Al’s eyes widened at the sight of Professor McGonagall walking briskly towards them, and he shoved Scorpius harshly. “Down!”

“In a sec, in a s- Good afternoon, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall remained as straight faced as ever as she took the two boys in.

“Two feet on the ground, Mr Malfoy.”

“Sorry, Professor.” And Scorpius stepped out of the air with a thud and slight stumble. He received an arch nod for his efforts, and stayed firmly on the ground as Albus wished their terrifying headmistress a good afternoon.

As soon as McGonagall’s footsteps receded, he had his wand out again and was wobbly drifting into the air.

“Detention, Mr Malfoy.”  Floated down the hall towards them, sounding dry and Scottish and damning.

Scorpius exchanged a betrayed look with Albus. “How does she bloody _do that_?”

* * *

The issue, Scorpius supposed, with having a school that had been around for a billion-odd years, was that it had had an awful lot of pupils.  
And when you have an awful-lot of pupils, they insist on _winning_ things.  
And when they won things, they wanted trophies and really, how much was that fleeting moment of satisfaction worth, Scorpius wondered - rag in hand - in the grand scheme of things? Because fine, they had their five minutes (maybe ten, but at a stretch) of glory and then they buggered off and forgot all _about_ their trophies.  
And then, _and then_ , some poor sod had to spend his Wednesday evening scrubbing at them.

“Maybe,” Scorp mused aloud, putting his back into Francis Berry’s shield of excellence. “We should just give people a pat on the back. A well done. Teach them to value themselves and not some lump of metal.”

The portrait on the wall – Lord Leonard Hastings – ignored him as he had done the past six times that Scorpius had made a suggestion. He just kept studying the book in his hand, and Scorp knew that he hadn’t turned a page in at least half an hour. Being blanked by a painting is a terrible feeling.

The sound of heels on the flagstones bounced around the cavernous trophy room as Scorpius was trying to get down to the same level as Melanie Schmidt, potions champ. She was clearly queen of the lower shelves, and Scorp worked out that the best way to show her some tender lovin’ was to lie down in front of her. He felt a pang for the house elf who was going to have to deal with his shirt in the morning, and resolved to leave a something out with his laundry by way of an apology.

“Scorpius?”

“Naya!”

Scorp deserted Melanie Schmidt, potions champ, without a backwards glance. It had been a momentary fling, after all. A sweet nothing. Naya did not need to know.  “What are you doing here?” He asked, shoving the rag into his back pocket and reaching out to her. Naya took in the state of his shirt and filthy hands, and arched a perfectly-groomed brow, lips curving upwards.

“I’m good, babe. I can appreciate you from over here.”

Scorp shrugged good naturedly and leant against the cabinet.  “I am wounded but I’ll live. What are you doing here?”

“I was on my way through to the dorm, one of the portraits told me that Lord Hastings had company.”

Scorpius looked up at the portrait with a shrewd expression. “You sly dog.”

“But really, Scorpius - Detention? Again?” Naya looked agitated, tapping the heel of her shoe against the ground, forehead furrowed. “You can’t afford to do this, babe! You’re leaving this year!”

Lord Hastings looked up from his book for the first time and nodded in agreement. Scorp scowled at him.

“Hey, this was just a casual thing. I doubt it’s even going to make it onto my record.” He reasoned, turning back to Naya. He took her in, lips quirking at the frown on her face. She was stunning in this half-light, dark eyes turning the same shining black of her hair and the glow from the candles making her high cheekbones stand out.

“Scorpius, any decent employer will ask about this. All of this.”

“You are gorgeous.”

“Scorpius!”

Scorp shrugged again, and moved closer, slipping his hands around her back. “Naya.”

She sighed, and leant her head forwards to rest on his chest. “You’re impossible. You are filthy and impossible.”

“I love you, too.”

“You cannot keep getting into trouble for such stupid reasons.”

“No promises.” Scorp teased, but Naya looked up at him with an expression that he couldn’t read. Her eyes were dark and painted darker, as though they had swallowed the light. Before he could put much thought into it, she reached up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. She didn’t bury her hands in his hair the way she used to, she didn’t arch her back and bite his lip – it was gentle. It tasted of familiarity, and Scorp cradled her head as he met each slide of her lips with one of his own. All too soon, she was pulling away, and he was left with empty hands and a judgemental painting.

 


	3. the edge of all we've ever known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i do not actually know what being stung by killer bees feels like, and therefore much of this chapter is subject to poetic license.

Sleep was fitful that night. The panes of window glass shook in their stone surrounds, the flags whipped at the slates on the sloping rooves. The cracking sound of fabric on slate woke Scorpius up. He opened bleary eyes to see candle light already spilling from Albus’s bed, but he wasn’t quite awake enough to try and understand why. His head was heavy, his eyelids were heavy, his arms were empty, and he drifted back to sleep. His dreams were filled with dark eyes and lashes, but a light, light laugh that he recognised but could not place.

 

* * *

 

_“Alright team, listen up!”_

Various timbres of groan ran through the team. Weasley’s bright tone contrasted horribly with the filthy black skies and the still-damp kit that they’d forced themselves into. Scorp exchanged a disgruntled glance with Ronan Finnegan who stood at his shoulder; The Finnegan twins were stocky. They moved with the ease of not really giving a shit about what anybody else thought, which made for terrifying beaters and hilarious drinking companions.

“Yeah, yeah.” Weasley said, narrowing her eyes. “We’ve all had it up to here with the weather. But we’re British, get your heads out of your asses. These are the facts, this is what we’re dealing with.” She turned her back on the pitch and focused firmly on the team, who were all standing a little straighter. “Why are we doing this? You’re all on this team for a reason – I'm asking you to remember what that reason is.”

There was a ripple throughout the team, and numb hands clutched their brooms tighter. Scorp’s lips quirked. “I’ve got a bet with Hanks from Ravenclaw.” He offered. “Gryffindor’s dignity is at stake, lads.”

“I promised me Dad that we’d win the cup this year.”

“ _We_ promised Dad that.”

“It’s _Ravenclaw._ ”

“I just fucking love quidditch.”

“I’ve got a bet with that Finnegan.” Amy Fletcher, one of their chasers, said ruefully, gesturing. The stocky lad gave her a thumbs up.

Rose raised her eyebrows appreciatively at her team. “That’s why we’re doing this. We’re doing this to be the best we can be, and to make our folks proud.”

“And fifty galleons.”

“Please shut up, Scorp.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Kit up. I want to see if we could get that Holyhead formation pulled together, and Malfoy – get that double eight sharp. Ravenlaw’s chasers are good, sure, but ours are better. Who are we?”

“GRYFFINDOR!!” The shout ran around the team, and they headed for the pitch. Kicking off in intervals, Rose watched them take for the sky. She frowned at the wind speeds, throwing her leg over her broom as the gale tried to take her off of her feet. Red and gold capes whipped around and the enchanted bludgers were desperately fighting the conditions.

“Please make it out of this alive.” She muttered, giving the ground a solid kick and pushing off.

 

In the air, things weren’t much better. Her broom shuddered as another gust came across the countryside and hit them head on. The Finnegan twins were smashing bludgers into the wind only for them to come flying back on the breeze which, Rose supposed, was good practice. Malfoy was skidding around the goal posts, spiralling and flipping. Objectively, she knew that the team was working like clockwork. But as she dove down to join the chasers, she felt that same niggle. It was the niggle that had kept her up for the past three nights, and that wasn’t becoming any clearer, no matter how many times she and Fletcher hashed it out. Scorp had tried to help, but his solution to her foreboding mood was for the guys to go into it shirtless ("It would reduce chaffing and act as a distraction!"), which was as good as useless.

“Fletch, on your left!” She yelled, and the quaffle flew towards her, hard and fast on the wind. She caught it in the crook of her arm before hurling it down the pitch towards Spinnet. For a while, everything seemed to settle down.

Circling the goals, Scorpius was fighting the urge to nap. He had been up most of the night, and everything was going fine out here. His turns were nicely tight; Flat against the broom, G-forces tugging at his core muscles and trying to tug him off, spinning so fast that his muscles burned. Yelling abuse at his team had amused him for the most part, but his focus was slipping away. Weasley had noticed, he knew. The quaffle wasn’t coming his way anywhere near as often, and he saw the three chasers tossing it between them impossibly quickly, moving up and down the pitch. His eyes glazed over as he watched, and he couldn't really be bothered to refocus them. 

The sound of a wooden bat against bludger tore Scorp back to reality. The first thing he registered was the feel of his cold hands on the broom’s slick black handle, and – _the bludger.  Who had hit the bludger?_

_The bludger._

There was a split second.

Not even that.

When Scorp realised that he should move.

_Move._

_Move._

And then,

_Agony._

And then,

_Falling._

Rose turned to see that bludger get smashed by a gust and then, a heartbeat later, he was tumbling through the air. A puppet with cut strings.

A heartbeat later, a scream was torn from her wind-ravaged lungs. Rose was a streak of crimson as she tore towards the boy, who was plummeting towards the ground.

She didn’t stand a chance.

 

* * *

 

Later, McGonagall put a hand on her shoulder, and said that she was sorry.

Later, she woke in the chair next to his bed with a start. Madam Pomfrey was bent over her, eyes warm and concerned. “You should change, Miss Weasley. Sleep in an actual bed.”

Rose had shaken her head mutely. Her quidditch robes were stiff with mud and Scorpius’s blood. Her leather gauntlets were scarred from where she’d used her teeth to unlace them.

Later, Mr Malfoy had wordlessly joined her silent vigil by his son’s bedside. He didn’t ask what Rose was doing there, and she appreciated it. She wouldn’t have been able to give an answer.

Ten hours after the accident, Rose was woken again by a hand on her shoulder. The room was dark, and the disorientation left her with déjà vu. “Scorp?” Rose mumbled, words slurred and heavy with exhaustion.

“Not quite.”

Rose straightened her spine and tried to wake up. Although the voice had been eerily similar to Scorpius’s, she saw that the speaker was slighter in stature, shorter – and that the younger Malfoy’s body was still prone in the starch white infirmary bed.

“Sorry, Mr Malfoy.”

“Don’t be.” Draco Malfoy paused, “You were crying.”

Reflexively, Rose put a hand to her cheeks and her fingers came away damp. “I – I don’t remember.” _Liar._ She remembered it all, in stops and starts. Rose remembered the way that Scorp had lain like a broken bird, limbs at completely the wrong angles. It was the first time in eight years that Rose had ever seen his giant body look _small_ , and entirely too human. She remembered it all.

Rose could feel Mr Malfoy’s eyes on her in the half-light of the muted infirmary lamps. “It’s probably for the best.”

Rose wondered what dreams Mr Malfoy had wilfully forgotten, for him to speak with such understanding.

“I’m sorry.” Rose said again. “I should have-”

“Don’t.” Mr Malfoy held up a hand, “Don’t do that to yourself. You did everything that you could have, and as a result of that, he’ll be fine. You need to sleep somewhere… sensible.” Malfoy’s lip curled as he looked at the infirmary chair, clearly far from his liking. “Scorpius will be here and well tomorrow, I assure you.”

Rose looked at the man that her father spoke of rarely, in passing, with distaste colouring his tone, and knew that she could trust him. Her very friendship with this man’s son was a betrayal to her father, so why not add a little more fuel to the flames?

“If he wakes up-”

“I’ll tell him you were here.”

“No,” Rose said hurriedly. “I mean, no thank you. Just tell him that - ” that she was worried out of her mind, that he should not get any ridiculous ideas about dying on her watch, that the image of him plummeting to Earth played on repeat every time she let her mind drift – “that he doesn’t get out of training because of this.”

Mr Malfoy looked at her for a moment, light grey eyes unreadable, before his lips lifted into the smirk that he’d bequeathed to Scorpius. He nodded slowly, and Rose turned to go.

“Thank you for my son, Miss Weasley.” was said to her back with finality.

Rose stilled for a moment, stunned, and then kept walking.

 

In her own bed, Rose tossed and turned. Amy had woken once, disturbed by the noise of Rose coming in. She had smiled a brittle smile at her, and Rose had remembered the way that Amy had retched at the sight of Scorpius, bleeding from a blackened broken collarbone. Amy was younger than Rose, and as Rose had peeled off her quidditch kit and crawled under the covers, she thought that no-one should ever have to see something like that. And then she remembered Mr Malfoy’s tone, and remembered that her parents and Amy’s parents and that entire generation of their world had seen demonic acts normalised. They would, Rose realised, be fine.

Including Scorpius.

 

* * *

 

Albus wasn’t happy.

It had started when he’d come back at about ten after an evening of helping Professor Longbottom distil deadly nightshade. He had found the Finnegan twins huddled together with Amy Fletcher and Harriet Spinnet. Barely a word was being said, and they all upped at once to leave for their respective dorms. Albus watched them go, consternation marring his features. Fletcher being subdued was not noteworthy; The Finnegan twins being subdued was cause for national panic. The four had sat with their backs against the rest of the room, and Albus had seen the hip-flask of firewhiskey being passed discreetly between them.

Albus had spent the next two hours riddled with this feeling of _wrongness_. It gnawed at the back of his mind, and wasn’t helped by the continued absence of Rose and Scorpius. Scorpius he could understand – the taller boy had a habit of disappearing to the Ravenclaw tower. But Rose had a cat. And that cat was stalking around the common room looking desolate. Hugo had spent a good twenty minutes lying on his stomach trying to coax the black creature out from underneath the sofa before he went to bed, eventually giving up. Albus was about to do the same, the clock having struck midnight, when his cousin had stepped, _stumbled_ , into the common room.  

“Rose!” Albus had exclaimed, horrified. “What happened to you?!” There was _blood_. All over Rose’s arms. The neckline of her robes had turned from the gaudy crimson to a rusty brown. It was on her _face_. A smear of it. Right across her temple.

“It’s not mine.” She’d said dully, wearily. Albus had relaxed for just a moment, until she’d gone “It’s Scorpius’s.”

And suddenly Albus had been a lot _less_ happy.

And that unhappiness had not waned as Rose had taken his arm as he went to rush down to the hospital wing and told him that, no, they wouldn’t let him in. Visitors were of course encouraged, but not when the patient in question is unconscious and re-growing two dozen bones past midnight.

“ _How many?!_ ”

“And she had to do something to his spinal cord. Reattach it.” This was all delivered heavily, as if the words had been physically weighing the bearer down. Which would have been fair - Rose looked dead on her feet. Albus didn’t want to think about how Scorpius must have looked. Probably even more dead. On his back.

That unhappiness had not gone _anywhere_ as he wrapped his cousin into a hug. That unhappiness had settled down comfortably when Rose had told him “His Dad’s watching over him.”

That unhappiness had started helping itself to the tv and mini-bar whilst watching Rose limp up the stairs to the her dormitory, and Albus was left alone with bad news and _no idea what to do with it._

So he went to bed.

 

* * *

 Remarkably, the world spun on. Had Scorpius been more aware and less doped up on Skele-Gro, he would have been offended by this. The last time that he had ended up in the hospital wing, a national holiday had been called.  Granted, that had been a bank holiday anyway but _still._

Waking up and finding his father there, head in a book, had been a surprise. He’d blinked slowly and owlishly, before trying to say “Dad?” His tongue was apparently far too large in his mouth. Scorp frowned and stuck it out, trying to peer at it down his nose. Seemed pretty normal. Maybe his mouth had shrunk?

Of course, it was at this point that his father looked up. Of course it was. Really.

“Oh good,” Mr Malfoy said dryly, closing the book and standing. “Nice to see that you’re looking better, son.”

Sitting up turned out to be a mistake – Scorpius was used to aching. He was _not_ used to the feeling of a million angry bees stinging him at once. Scorp’s face twisted and he dropped back against the pillows with a groan. “Oh my fuck.”

“Scorpius Hyperion.” Draco snapped reflexively, whilst brushing the hair out of his son’s eyes.

Scorp blinked up at him, eyes huge in his pale face. “Dad, tell me – do I still have my legs?”

Draco Malfoy snorted. “Just about. You have two bottles of Skele-Grow in your system, and Pomfrey was working on you for a good two hours just to make sure your internal organs _stayed_ internal.”

“Will I ever play the violin again?”

“You couldn’t play before.”

Scorpius allowed for that with a stiff nod, back molars grinding together as another wave of pain hit him. He clenched his eyes shut, because his hands wouldn’t curl into fists as his instincts demanded.

Dimly, he heard his father stand. Draco Malfoy carefully picked a rose coloured bottle off of the nightstand, and raised it to his son’s lips. “Come on now, easy.” Scorpius heard his father mutter, “Take this, son. Come on.”

Scorp loosened his jaw and let the glass of the bottle clink against his teeth.  This, this _tenderness_ of his father’s reminded him of when he was ten, and the dog had accidentally clawed the side of his neck.

_It had been Scorpius’s fault. At ten years old, he knew that. Ursa was an enormous Labrador, and usually such a gentle giant. Twice the size of the scrap of child, the 40 kilo dog let him jump on his back, roll around underneath him, drag him through the grounds. But it had been raining for days on end, and both dog and child were fractious. Scorpius was a good natured child, but without the chance to get the energy out of his system he had taken to pouting, and then running around the house madly, hyped up on confinement. On one such occasion, he had crashed into the dog. Ursa had not been in the mood for brawling. The dog had wanted to sleep next to the fire, to lounge around as befitted the weather._

_But Scorpius had been incessant. He poked, fondled, scruffed ears, and finally_ yes! _Ursa joined in, and played dead and rolled over and tousled with the freckled, pale haired boy. But then Scorpius had leapt at him, and Ursa had caught him across the neck with one great paw. It was an accident, and Draco Malfoy had born witness to the fact from his office doorway._

 _But still, there had been blood running down Scoprius’s shirt and how he had_ howled _. Just for an instant. And then he went very, very quiet and put his hands to the seeping wound, staining his fingers crimson. As his father had rushed towards him, Scorpius had bowed his head before the enormous dog._

_“Sorry, Ursa.”_

_Draco had gathered him into his arms, yelling for Asteria, for their house elf Hooper._

_And all the while he had been promising to look after Scorpius, and all the while Scoprius had known it to be true._

Now, as Scorp felt the silken potion slide down his throat, he realised that this was his father. That it took blood and tears to break down the veneer that was so artfully and delicately placed around the older man’s vulnerability. Scorp understood. He did. He was just grateful to live inside the barricade.

Draco settled himself back down into the chair by Scorpius’s head. Scorp wasn’t going to try sitting up again, so all he could really see was his father crossing his legs, and then dusting off the slightly rumpled material of his trousers with a deft flick of his fingers. They shared those fingers, Scorpius knew. His mother had turned her son’s hand over on several occasions and told him that he had pianist’s fingers. So he had taken up piano, with varying degrees of success.

“The Weasley girl was here.” Draco said, opening up the paper that _was always on his person._ Scorp twisted his head around to gape at his father, and felt the angle of his head give him an extra two chins or so _._

_“What?”_

“Indeed. She asked me to tell you that this,” Draco gestured at the mess of semi-repaired humanity in the bed, “would not be getting you out of training.”

Scorpius snorted, smile turning his mouth up. “I bet she did.” _Pause_. “Actually, Dad, _when_ did she?”

“Last night.” His father turned a page, flicking it out so that it lay crisply against the last.

“Last night _when_?” Scorpius had a feeling. An itch. And there was a possibility that it was from the cast around his shoulder, but-

“Shortly before she left.”

“ _Father.”_

Draco raised an unimpressed eyebrow, gazing sardonically at his son over the newspaper. _Father_ was eradicated in the household. Scorpius had gone from _Daddy_ to _Dad_ with nothing in between. _Father_ was not a part of their lives.

“Shortly before midnight, I would imagine.” _Pause, again._ “But she brought you in. So she really must care.”

“Quidditch does mean a lot to her.” Scorp said thoughtfully, adjusting himself on his pillow. Less chins equalled less things to worry about.

His father scoffed, standing and flicking the newspaper closed. “Ah, yes. _Quidditch_ certainly seems to. Now, I’m going to owl your mother, tell her that you’re awake. Pomfrey will be around shortly, I assume. You will try _not_ to injure yourself further, won’t you? Just until then?”

Scorp would have waved a nonchalant hand, but his arms were still filled with killer bees. He managed to flop one of them on top of the covers instead, and his father clearly took that as a reassurance. “Excellent.”

Scorpius watched him leave with a bemused expression and the feeling that they had just had two _entirely_ different conversations.

 


	4. crying icicles instead of tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> half of this was written whilst listening to honey i'm good by andy grammar so, y'know, it's got that kind of feel to it. i'm probably very sorry.

 

Rose _leapt_ out of bed.

Albus crawled.

Rose sprang around the room gathering shirts, skirts, robes, cat - all as silently as possible. Amy slept the sleep of the dead, but even the dead tended to notice when the cat started kneading the soft skin just above their breasts.

Albus tried to destroy the watch. Which was Scorpius’s job. Albus was going to have words about shirking responsibilities.

Rose _was_ a morning person, and therefore made it to the hospital wing for 8 o’clock, having had breakfast _and_ finished that potions homework that she had meant to do tomorrow.

Albus was _not_ a morning person. Albus considered it impressive that he had made it to the hospital wing at all. Granted, it was with a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a buttery croissant in the other, but still. He was there, wasn’t he?

Rose got to the hospital wing at 8 o’clock, which Madam Pomfrey considered _uncouthly early. He is seriously injured, Miss Weasley. Come back at a more civilised hour and you can see him._ The matriarch remained immovable, even after Rose’s pleading, and especially after Rose’s attempts at bribery.

Albus got to the hospital wing at 9 o’clock. Madam Pomfrey smiled at him when he asked to see Scorpius, and told him to _go right ahead, dear._ He even got to take his croissant in with him.

Rose slunk away.

Albus ambled in.

 

* * *

 

 

“When you told me that you had fallen hard, I was expecting something else.”

Scorpius had brightened considerably at the sound of footsteps. Not that he was moping. Merlin’s beard, never. But he had counted the tiles above his head _seven_ times, and then again in Latin. He had made up _stories about the dustmites, for God’s sake._

Footsteps were exciting though. Footsteps that weren’t his father’s familiar tread, and without the click-clack of high heels, which ruled out Madam Pomfrey (and, incidentally, Naya, but Scorp was refusing to be dispirited.)

“Albus!”

“You moron.”

Albus reached Scorpius and stood over him, and Scorp registered the relief in his friend’s eyes moments before-

“Did you bring me a croissant? And tea? _Did you bring me breakfast?_ ” Scorpius could see the light sheen of grease that the flaky pastry was leaving on Albus’s fingers. He could _see_ the hazy steam drifting from the blue mug of tea. He could do everything _but_ taste that glorious, sinful, croissant.

He was so busy salivating over the food that he missed Albus’s remorseful eyes. “You’re not allowed solid food, Scorp. I’m sorry, mate.”

That hurt.

“Albus,” Scorpius said, wounded, wrenching his gaze from breakfast. “Did you come in here to _taunt_ me? That’s astonishingly rude. I’m an invalid, here.”

Albus shrugged, tore off a piece of pastry and popped it in his mouth. Glibly. Cheerfully. Like it was no big deal. Like it was not more painful than _two_ bottles of Skele-Gro swimming around in his system.

“I have,” Albus checked his watch with a swift movement that left Scorp very worried for the fate of _his_ tea. “two minutes before I have to run to Defence Against. Do you _really_ want to spend it arguing over something that you are _never_ going to touch?”

“Like your mum?”

“Oh, good. And I was so worried that your sense of humour would have perished along with your sternum.”

Scorpius laughed, struggling to sit upright. He gave up, collapsing against the sheets as his friend tore of _another_ piece of the pastry.

“Albus,” he said weakly, rapidly opting for Plan B. “I’m dying. I have just days to live, you know. The damage was so-”

“No, you aren’t.”

“So severe that-”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I long for simple things, Albus. Clean air, long Hampshire nights, a woman’s touch-”

“Nice, nice.”

“A singular _bite_ of that croissant. Potter - Don’t walk away from me! Where are you going?!”

“Potter!!”

“Albus!”

“Al!”

“You bastard.”

 

* * *

 

When Rose was eight, she was taken to London for the first time. In the middle of Trafalgar Square, she stood at the base of Nelson’s Column, and asked her mother how tall it was. She’d have asked her Dad, but her Mum knew things. Important Things.

“Fifty-one meters.” Her mother had said without a moment’s hesitation, whilst scrubbing dirt from Hugo’s pert little nose.

Rose, eight years old, had nodded and gone: “So that’s a meter taller than the big quidditch hoop.”

Her mother had hummed in agreement, already rooting through her bag for something. An Important Something.

But her father had scooped her up onto his shoulders so that she could see better. She had dug her hands into his thick red hair and tilted her head _riiiight_ back to see the top of the monument. She fancied that it touched the sky. She fancied that it could touch the stars. She would have liked to have asked the guy standing on top of the column whether he could catch a star for her in his hat, but she was eight and even then knew that _that_ was a bit nonsensical.

Rose couldn’t imagine falling from the top of Nelson’s Column.

 

* * *

 

Time took it upon itself to drag it’s heels. Rose had seen the team briefly at breakfast, and had promised them an update by the end of the day. Now, lunch was drawing to a close and Rose had not been _near_ the hospital wing since being turned away that morning. Instead, she had been ensconced in a bloody meeting about whether or not the quidditch match could go ahead the following Sunday, and all she wanted to do was yell “If you would let me go and see my _player_ , maybe I could give you an answer!!”

But she didn’t.

Rose Weasley was not the kind of girl to be yelling at the other quidditch captains. She was not the kind of girl to pout. She was not the kind of girl to _obviously_ flout authority.

If Rose Weasley were the kind of girl who would make sure that _all_ of their shoelaces came undone repeatedly throughout the day, and that their quills ran out halfway through a sentence, then that was just one of those things. Not handily at the end of a sentence. Not just before they started. Their quills would run out exactly in the middle.

Rose Weasley was not the kind of girl to let herself be deterred by weather or schedules.

 Rose Weasley had always been the kind of girl to run along corridors.

 

Rose skidded to a stop outside of the hospital wing as soon as the halls filled with students heading for lunch. Not stopping to think, Rose put her shoulder to the huge oaken doors and pushed. Sticking her head in, she saw no sign of Madame Pomfrey or of her assistant Knott. _Ha_ , Rose thought, _point to Weasely._

Other than Scorpius’s bed at the end of the room, the infirmary was deserted. All but skipping past the empty beds, Rose was not thinking about how different it was from the night before. She barely noticed that the sun was slanting through the high windows, when yesterday the storm had seemed relentless. She did not think about the fact that her face was unmarred by another’s blood. Instead, Rose had a smile playing about her lips. Okay, yes, she had almost killed Scorp – but not completely! Only a little!

“Rosie?”

 

* * *

 

Scorpius had enough pain medication swimming around his system to knock out a dragon. Earlier, following Albus’s rude exit, all Scorp could think about was breakfast. And now lunch. _Food._ Earlier, Scorpius had decided that actually, he felt fine. He had felt far worse in the past, but the Malfoy men had an absurdly low pain tolerance. It was embarrassing, really.

Earlier, Scorpius had reasoned that his bones had had all night to mend. He had brand new bones! They were stronger than the bones that he had had before! And when Knott had vetoed Scorp’s request for a cinnamon whirl, Scorpius had taken it upon himself to swing his legs out of the bed to go and get himself one.

Knott had come running at Scorpius yell of pain, and found the blond lying on the floor, scowling at the ceiling.

“How many muscles do you imagine that we had to repair last night?” Knott had asked dryly, levitating Scorp back onto the bed.

Scorp was on fire. He couldn’t see flames, but _sweet mother of all things holy_ he could feel them.

“Six, Mr. Malfoy. We had to repair six muscles.”

Scorpius lay there, eyes and jaw clenched shut. Knott seemed like a nice bloke, he didn’t deserve what would happen if Scorp opened his mouth.

“How many muscles do you imagine that we’ll be repairing for the rest of the morning?” Knott continued, unwinding the dressings from around Scorpius’s torso. The healer traced his wand over the skin, the healthy pink of it had turned to black and blue and yellow. Scorp would have flinched if he could feel it, but his brain had had enough abuse and was taking a holiday.

“Six, Mr. Malfoy. We will be repairing six muscles.”

Since then, Scorp hadn’t really moved. He had been a dream patient. Whatever Pomfrey or Knott needed to do to him, he let them without complaint or lip.

They had knocked Scorpius out.

 

* * *

 

 

“I am so sorry.” Rose said miserably. “You look _awful.”_

“That’s ridiculous. I am never anything but gorgeous.”

“Have you actually seen your face?”

“I broke my face?!” Scorp rolled his jaw, but nothing twinged. “How badly?!”

Rose’s face, which had gone from ecstatic to grey as soon as she saw him, lightened. “Horrendously.”

“The school will be hearing from my father.” Scorp grumbled, but there was no weight behind it. “How much training have I missed?”

“None.” Rose reached down to where her bag sat at her feet and pulled a packet of cards out. “Can’t do an awful lot without our keeper.”

“What about Bennet? Can’t he sub?”

“We can’t do an awful lot without our keeper.” Rose repeated firmly, and Scorp would have been the first to admit that the show of faith warmed him. “I’ve got an hour before anyone bothers telling McGonagall I’m missing – how much money do you think I can rob you of in that time?”

Scorp lifted his arms and wriggled his fingers experimentally. Everything important was working, so – “Pittance, Weasley. Absolute pittance.”

Rose grinned evilly, and started to deal.

 

“Oh, shit. One more round?”

“Didn’t you say ‘ _pittance’?_ ”

“Weasley, can I make a confession? I’m trying to support a secret wife and three children, don’t take all of my money.”

“All in?”

“Fuck you, Rosie.”

“Aw, don’t make that face.”

 

“You can’t give yourself extra cards.”

“But I need them.”

“But you can’t.”

“Rosie, you’re not listening. Watch my lips, okay? See them moving? They are telling you that I need those cards.”

“Ha. No.”

“Not again.”

 

“You cheat!”

“You have no proof.”

“Are you _hiding cards in your cast_?!”

“Stop trying to look under my clothes, Weasley.”

 

“Hey, Scorp.”

At some point, the sun had started to slip down the walls and the shadows had grown longer and longer, crawling across the floor and over the crisp white sheets of the infirmary beds.

“Mmm?” He wasn’t falling asleep, not really. He was adjusting to life as a lesser, broker man and it was much easier to do that through slitted, sleepy eyes. Rose shifted next to him, because he had slapped the space on the bed next to him impatiently when she had gone to sit in the adjacent chair. Weasleys had a reputation of being fiendishly tricky to beat at cards, and if Scorp wasn’t to lose the entire family fortune then he needed to be close enough to see her cards every now and again.

“Are you okay?”

Scorp opened his eyes some and glanced down at Rose. The question in and of itself wasn’t remarkable, but it was the way Rose had _asked_ it. She was looking up at him searchingly, and he had a feeling it extended beyond the fact that about 50% of his body was brand spanking new. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Weasley, you’ve taken all of my money, most of my dignity, and I’ve honestly never felt better. Nice to have a holiday. Get away from it all.”

Rose’s face split into a grin, even as she shook her head at him. “Did the Maldives not appeal?”

“I’m watching my carbon footprint.” Scorp batted back, letting his eyes droop closed again. It struck him that Rose’s shoulder was just the right shape to lean against. The muscles and bone had formed a really convenient napping spot, and maybe he would write somebody a thank you note. That was the polite thing to do, right?

“Responsible.” Scorp heard cards shuffling and shook his head.

“Rose, the only thing I haven’t given you is my wedding ring. I can’t play another round.”

“What a way to propose. No, I have to run – it’s gone six.”

“Nope.”

Scorius didn’t see so much as _feel_ Rose’s amusement. It saturated her voice as she said “Are you denying the time? Really?”

Dragging himself up straight again, Scorpius looked down at Rose. She had one eyebrow arched impishly, hands busy again – this time at straightening the playing cards. “It’s a figment of your imagination. Time is a very flexible concept.”

“True,” Rose agreed slowly, playing along. “But guess how many detentions I have scheduled?”

“Too many?”

“Precisely, and Hugo _always_ tells Mum, who _always-“_

“Threatens dismemberment, I remember.”

Laughing lightly, Rose eased herself off of the bed. It was cold, Scorp realised grumblingly, without her. “Well, I’d hate for anyone to think I was hogging you whilst you were at a disadvantage”

Making a disparaging sound, Scorpoius watched as Rose’s hands stuffed the cards back into the packet and then tugged at the straps on her messenger bag. “Al beat you to it this morning. He brought me breakfast and then ate it himself. It was almost romantic.”

Rose snorted, dragging her fingers through her hair. “Wow. I bet Naya loved that.”

“Couldn’t say,” Scorp said lightly, eyes on the glint of golden ring on Rose’s middle finger. It had this pattern on it, and it looked like acorns? Or feet? Something pear shaped? “Haven’t seen her.”

The fidgeting hands stilled.

“Seriously?”

By now, Scorpius’s bedside cabinet was stacked high with gifts that had either been sent over or delivered in person. Throughout the day, students had been dropping in and checking to make sure that Scorpius was a) still alive and b) not going to miss the match on Sunday. Because, as Sean Finnegan had explained when he and Amy had stopped off in between Charms and Care of Magical Creatures, there were only five full days to go before match day. Slacking at this point in the training programme was _downright despicable, wouldn’t you agree, Captain? (“A very fair point.”) (“Hahaha-no.”)_

Scorpius had commented that he had never felt more loved after Albus had stuck his head in for the third time that day. But, now that Rose thought about it, the intimidating Ravenclaw hadn’t been a part of the sea of faces. Rose had assumed that the prefect had already been to see Scorp, that she had been in before Rose had evaded capture after lunch.

Okay.

Okay.

Scorpius wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were on a spot just above her head. “Scorp.” Rose said lowly. “Malfoy.”

He looked shifty. Rose had seen Scorpius most days since the September that she turned eleven. She had seen him in a myriad of different ways. This particular look was classed under “avoidance,” subsection “nah.”

“Okay, I’m going to g-”

“She probably hasn’t even heard.” Scorp said to the ceiling. He didn’t want to look at Rose. “She’s busy; That essay of Eschowich’s? She’ll be holed up in the library.”

“Sure.” Rose was noncommittal, but it wasn’t her place. It wasn’t. It was not. It- “But Scorp?”

Grey eyes met blue. Rose steeled herself, trying not to focus on the dark rings around Scorpius’s eyes. “She should have been here.” _Softly._ “You know she should have been here.”

Scorpius’s mouth tightened and he said nothing for a long moment. “That was uncalled for. How’s your love life doing, Rose? Because by all means, the blokes you’ve dated have been the absolute fucking picture of perfection.”

“I never _once_ claimed that – Listen to yourself, Merlin! Is that possible? Or is your head too far up your own ass?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I speaking out of turn?!”

The pair glared daggers at each other for a few long seconds. “I’m leaving.” Rose said abruptly, pushing her hair out of her face with a sharp, jerky motion.

“I think that would be for the best.” Scorpius replied coldly. Later, he would berate himself for his timing. Because fine, nice comeback. But bad timing – Rose was already stalking away down the hall.


	5. i'll take the blame if it's for your sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title from James Blunt's So Far Gone  
> in which rose and scorpius realise that they can't live without each other after all, albus is not a middle aged parent but thank you very much, and hugo makes the mistake of trying to gamble away a date with rose

It fell to Albus to play intermediary after that. He wasn’t happy. He didn’t like it. He never liked it. Because no, it wasn’t as if Rose and Scorpius had never fought before. They fought regularly, like clockwork. They fought for the fun of it, and Albus had to sit there and stroke their hair soothingly until _one_ of them climbed off of their high-horse and apologised.

Now, he sat by Scorpius’s bed and tried to ignore the blond’s gloomy glower. Albus was scratching away at a notebook, adding everything that Professor Longbottom had mentioned about the Venomous Tentacula on the walk back from the greenhouses. Rose, as far as he was aware, was steering clear of Scorpius. Albus did not know what had happened, but he knew that this was different. This fight had left Rose looking _sad_   - rather than the usual state of indignation and outrage. It worried Albus, but not enough to act like the child of two divorced parents.

“Al,” Scorp said thoughtfully, a short while later. “Albus.”

“Probably not, whatever it is.”

“Not helpful, mate. Say you fell off, say, a broom,”

“Mmm.” Albus mumbled absentmindedly.  _Not green. The leaves are not green, you fool. The leaves are a muted olive with purple undertones._

“Yeah, okay, so you fell off a broom – you got hit by a, by a dragon." Still talking. Scorpius was still talking. "A low flying dragon,”

Warming to his theme, Scorpius pushed himself further up in his bed. Knott had told him that his muscles were on the mend just this morning, and that he would be allowed out by this evening at the latest. So in that regard, he was feeling fairly chipper! “Just it’s wing, but you _fell_. And you pulverised most of, y’know, you.”

“Did I die?” Albus turned a page. There was ink all over his fingers. He frowned briefly at the marks it left on the snowy parchment, completely uninterested in the stains on his shirt sleeves.

Scorpius shook his head impatiently. Albus  _insisted_ on missing the point. “Almost, but here’s the thing – who would you expect to come and see you?”

Albus looked at Scorpius shrewdly over the edge of his book. Scorpius was not as subtle as he liked to think. “Hopefully, the people who cared. And Marilyn Monroe, circa 1960.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“You ignorant twat.”

“I’m wounded.”

Albus waved a disparaging hand and turned back to his notes. “Why are you plotting my death?” He asked, carefully modulating his tone to stay level and unflappable.

“You would do the same for me.” Scorpius replied at the same speed as usual, but without the same levels of snark.

“I often ha-” there was something in Scorp’s face that cut Albus off, midstream. He turned in his seat to look to the doorway of the infirmary, and was not surprised to see Rose carefully shutting the enormous door behind her. “I’m going.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I really do. I have-” _panic_ “a date!” _Crap._

“At four on a Tuesday?”

“Strict parents. Her curfew is six.”

“Al-”

“I’ll swing by later!”

Scorpius watched Albus hurry away with something similar to a pout. He knew that whatever Rose had to say was probably worth listening to, but God, couldn’t a bloke lick his wounds for just a little longer?

 

* * *

 

 

Rose had left the hospital wing that day and realised that her hands were shaking. She hadn’t gone straight back to the Common Room, instead sneaking out of the castle via the kitchens and breathing in deep lungfuls of still Scottish air. Rose argued with people, fine. She had her father’s temper, her mother’s deep rooted sense of righteousness. But she never came away from those fights feeling as though she had staked her entire hand and lost it. The blood in her veins felt as if it were burning her alive on the way to her heart. Her head pounded.

Over the next few hours, this urge to _move_ dictated Rose’s every action. She was a blur of activity, she was a wildly scratching quill finalising the homework that had been piling up since the accident, she was a blur of black and crimson as she turned Amy’s and her dorm upside down and dusted _everything_. She was doing anything to try and hush the white noise in her head.

But as night drew in, and Rose collapsed exhausted next to her concerned roommate, who tentatively petted her hair, she realised that half of her assignments were illogical. The dorm was in disarray. This had to stop.

“I just don’t want him to get hurt.” Rose replied tiredly when Amy asked what was wrong.

“Did you tell him that?”

“I told him that his head was rammed up his a-”

“Oh, Rose.”

So, here she was.

 

* * *

 

 

Scorpius sat up straighter. The beds weren’t really suited to those who stood at six foot three, and this was not a conversation that he wanted to have with his knees drawn up to his chin. Or, ideally, at all.

Rose stood straighter. She wasn’t short - she was average, thank you very much - but when your dignity is at stake, you want to stand a little taller than five foot four.

Scorpius watched Rose come towards him, and he saw the way she put her chin up. He caught the way her thumbs slipped into the belt loops of the black jeans she was wearing under her sweeping robe. He saw the barely perceptible movement in her eyes. And he realised something.

Rose had given up the instinct to stubbornly stick to her guns last night. And again, when Albus had brushed past her and glanced at her from under his unfairly long lashes. And again, now, with Scorpius watching her as if he knew everything already, as if he had seen her soul stripped bare.

“I’m sorry.” Rose said, and at the same moment, Scorpius said “I was a dick.”

Stunned silence fell.

“Really?” Rose demanded, as Scorpius went “What?” and blinked once, hard and surprised.

“Well, yeah, you just – what did you mean?”

“I came to apologise. Naya is holed up in the library, and God knows it wasn’t my business anyway.”

Scorpius gaped. Rose clung to her resolve. “I’m just - I’m sorry, Scorp.”

Wordlessly, Scorpius slid over in the bed and nodded at the empty space. Rose raised one eyebrow, and he huffed. “Oh, come on. I have the high horse right now. Come sit next to me, Weasley.”

“No, you don't, because you actually _were a dick._  I am not a dog. I do not just come when you whistle.”

“That’s what she- No? Please?”

The mattress gave as Rose perched on the edge of the bed. She left a good twelve inches between them, and it seemed like a massive distance to Scorp. Massive, but not insurmountable.

“I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have done.” Scorpius stopped, corrected himself. “A lot of things I didn’t _mean_.”

“So did I.”

“No,” Scorp shook his head, blond hair flying. It wanted cutting. “No, it was – it was fair. I get why you said it.”

Rose glanced over at him sharply. Did he? Because she wasn’t sure she did.

“I’m lucky. I’m lucky to have you. And Al.” Scorp finished simply. “I wouldn’t do well on my own. And-” He paused and Roe watched him carefully.

"And?"

"I'm sorry, for what I said about - about Leonard. You date whoever and I'll - I'll cheer you on, or whatever. You just deserved better than that asshole."

Emotion welled up inside Rose, even as she tried to hide it by scraping her hands roughly through her hair. "Scorp, that wasn't your fault."

Scorpius had been watching the strands of fire settle around Rose's shoulders. "Kind of was. I knew he was violent, Rosie."

Silence settled around the two for a moment, but the space between them had evaporated. Rose's shoulder rested comfortably against his bicep - Sitting like this, she came all of the way up to his chin.

“Friends?” Rose offered her pinky finger. Scorpius linked his own through it, and for one long, silent moment, their hearts beat in unison.

“Friends.”

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, Scorpius was discharged from the hospital wing. Coincidentally, Tuesday evening was also the evening that Albus Potter realised that he was broke. Currency in Hogwarts varied from actual galleons and sickles to Bertie Botts and Grimer’s Best Broom Polish. Whilst many students – the admirable, moralistic ones – made well do on the allowances that their parents sent, many more bartered and wagered and, in certain older students, gambled. Albus had never been particularly moralistic. Fortunately, neither had Hugo, Ronan, or James.

“Aaaaaaaaaand Weasley takes the lead, Potter falling behind and Finnegan dropping back into third place! Thirrrrd place!” There was a colossal crash. “Took that bed leg a little too sharp, did we? They’re onto the straight. Weasley has a straightforward run but Potter isn’t giving up easy, he isn’t giving in, he – Oh, you bastard!”

There was a scuffling, an indignant yell, and then “James Potter should be disqualified. All in favour? Good. Sorry, Jamsey.”

“Assholes.” A voice muttered darkly. “It barely singed it. Wasn’t that nice a tie.”

“It was a _gorgeous_ tie. Gentlemen, if we could continue…? Excellent, thank you. They’re off! Left in the running is Weasley and Finnegan. It’s all to play for, chaps – Think of the honour, the pride, the glory!”

“Albus, we all know you’re backing Hu.”

“I’m impartial, you asshole.”

Scorpius pushed open the door to his dorm at the very same second as a miniature broomstick came flying straight at his midriff. The other lads in his room watched in muted horror and delight as the sharp handle of the broom collided with his stomach and Scorpius’s face went from confusion to understanding to outrage.

“Why?!” He pleaded with the silent room.

“Aaaaaand it would appear that Weasley’s broom has hit an obstruction.” Albus continued, meeting Scorp’s eye in second before peals of raucous laughter spread around the room, passing between one lad and the next contagiously.

The rest of the evening passed in a state of heady revelry. There was a celebratory feel in the air as the boys staked their wealth of Fizzing Wizzbees only to lose them on the next hand. Despair and jubilation chased each other around the room; It was only when Hugo Weasley found himself alone in a sea of Bang Bang Boggart Bangers that things took a turn for the unexpected.

“Now, with this next hand – Finnegan, I swear to Dumbledore, if you take one step closer to that plant…!”

“You’re a bloody Type A, Potter.”

“With this _next hand_ ,” Al continued blithely, utterly unfazed, “items with a worth _exceeding_ fourteen sickles can be placed against each card _._ This excludes trick wands, okay? No more.”

The room’s occupancy had doubled in the past hour, with so and so yelling for so and so until the dorm was full of lanky teenaged boys sprawled over the beds and crammed onto the floor. “What if it’s a jaw breaker?!”

“No good, Lector!”

“I’m in a galleon!”

“I’ve got – wait, that’s a squib singlet – I’ve got whatever this is from Honeydukes and the latest copy of the Chudley Cannons calendar.”

“I’ve got Wealth of Witches?”

“Nine sickles _and_ \- Potter, give that, get your own! – and Ollivander’s own spell shine.”

Bets were placed, flying around the room in a wave of barely-controlled chaos. Albus readily kept track of them, hollering over people and measuring the worth of miscellaneous offerings with an expert eye.  Scorpius bet half a plaster cast signed by _Celeste Moriarty (_ “And she kissed it,”) James tossed in the prototype that Fred Weasley had owled him last month, Albus produced a potion that offered the user a full face of stubble until midnight, and Hugo-

“Come on now, mate! You’ve gotta play for something?”

Hugo cast a panicked look at the items in his hands. “Merlin’s beard, why no trick wands?! I’ve got nothing?!”

“Sell your body!” Finnegan called, to howls of laughter.

“Yeah, mate! You could do an escort service!”

“Bastards – I’ll set you up with Rose. For the World’s Ball. _I’ll make her be nice.”_

The room split in two – those who found the entire thing hilarious, and those who were struck dumb.

“Please.” Brannagh croaked out hoarsely. Scorp shot him a look. Albus, however, looked thoughtful.

“I’d say that’s worth a good ten galleons, provided you can actually convince her.” It was common knowledge that Rose was far from one to go quietly.

“She still owes me.” Hugo said, confidence growing. “She’ll play nice. But, no touching.”

Murmers. Murmers and possibly a soft whimper.

“Very well.” Albus scribbled the deal onto a scrap of parchment. “Weasley wagers the company of his sister at the World's Ball, but no touching is permitted. Let’s play.”

Cards bristled, snapped and glowed. Roars and exclamations interspersed a concentrated silence. Sparks flew as the cards shredded themselves, threw themselves into midair. Matches ended the game for some, were safety nets for others. One by one, victory by victory, loss by loss – players left the game, taking nothing with them but shreds of dignity.

James Potter went out with the same good-natured curses that he had bet his old broom case with.

Karl Kidminister went out with a sob.

Albus went out with the quiet grace that losing occasioned in him.

Eventually, two players were left. Ronan Finnegan’s broad shoulders were encased in a black sweater, and his eyes gleamed in the lamplight as hand after hand dealt itself and destroyed itself in a flurry of spitting flames. He played his cards with heavy hands, moves sure and decisive.

Opposite him, Scorp’s hand – curled tightly around a butterbeer – was the only sign of tension in his battered body. His tall frame stretched out in the available space between two beds, and he placed card after card with an almost _lazy_ flick of his fingers. They drifted onto the pile before flipping themselves over, revealing king, queen, ace…  joker.

The tension built and built in the room as Albus kept track of who was currently winning what.

“That hand goes to Finnegan. Bets?”

“Malfoy, that hand is yours. Bets?”

Minutes past, and students drifted out of the room until only the original seven and several invested stragglers remained.

“Malfoy’s. Bets?”

“Finnegan – that goes to you. Bets?”

“Bets?”

Scorp’s hand was diminishing, and he was pale under the ruddiness caused by the heated room and the alcohol. It took a moment, before his jaw tightened. “I’m all in.”

Ronan started, staring at Scorpius carefully. The other boy had done that several times this game already – it was his death blow, his way of wiping the other players out. When you have nothing, his reasoning seemed to go, you had nothing to lose.

“Sure about that?” He asked, hedging his bets. “Because, you know, there’s a lot at stake.”

“Dead certain.” Scorpius said levelly. He caught Ronan’s look, and arched an eyebrow roguishly. “Not scared are we, Finnegan?”

Ronan’s card slapped down on the pile with a sound akin to a gunshot. “All in, then. I’m all in.”

Scorpius took a slug from his drink, resting the bottle against his lip for a moment as the cards played themselves out. One rose from his stack, another from Finnegan’s, and they mirrored the other for a brief moment before snapping around to reveal themselves.

Scorpius watched keenly as match by match went by. It started well – His ace to Finnegan’s queen, his jack to Finnegan’s ten. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Albus’s forehead tighten.

Hugo shifted, stepping over limbs to come and settle next to Al. “He’s not happy.” He hissed into the dark haired boy’s ear.

“Shh,” Albus hushed him, eyes not leaving the games. “It’s not over yet.”

And then, all at once, it was.

Scorpius’s King bested Ronan’s Joker – the final two cards squared up - beads of perspiration had appeared on the stockier lad’s forehead. The list of items at stake was crumpled in Albus’s fist as his hand tightened involuntarily.

King, ace.

Four, eight.

Nine – _ten._

Ronan’s card landed in pristine condition, whilst Scorpius was left to brush ash off of his black trousers.

The two players sat in silence, almost catatonic. Meanwhile, the dorm erupted into a near frenzy with congratulations and commiserations flying around the room at breakneck speed.

In the flurry of it all, Scorp reached out to clap Ronan on the back. “Merlin, Finnegan, that was tight. Played, mate. Enjoy that plaster cast.”

Ronan gripped Scorpius’s shoulder briefly, easy smile on his face, “Couldn’t have said it better. But gotta be honest, quality time with Rose Weasley? I'll take that over Celeste Moriarty's kisses any day - it's rarer.”

Scorpius smiled, but it felt painful and probably looked more like a grimace. Merlin knew that Weasley could look after herself, but that didn't stop a red haze descending over Scorp's eyes for a moment. She was his friend. She was  _his._

It felt like hours later that Albus called a halt to the evening, yelling something about pyjamas and badly needing beauty sleep. In reality, it was a few short minutes but Scorpius had had a long day. James was the last to leave the room. He paused to scruff up his younger brother’s hair, turning it into even more of a mess than it had been before.

“Out.” Albus said sternly. “Out, out, _out.”_

“Yeah, yeah,” James laughed him off, tossing his sweater over one shoulder. “But consider this – you two have got to look after Hugo _after_ he’s told Rose that he signed her up for a date with Finnegan. That should be _so_ much fun.” And with a wicked grin, he followed his friends out.

There was a pause. Scorpius collapsed onto his bed, newly repaired joints screaming at him. “Bollocks,” he sighed.


	6. everyone knows, but not what to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title from Rixton's Hotel Ceiling.
> 
> (has it been a while since we've had feelings? no? nevermind, let's have some more anyway.)

Breakfast was an amazingly chipper affair in the school. Enchanted platters that refilled before amazed eyes banished any thoughts of sleep, and there was something about the way that the wall hangings glittered and shone in the early morning light that inspired. You found yourself sat amongst your classmates, and as one enthusiasm bounced off another, the day ahead appeared to be full of boundless opportunities.

When you were eleven.

By the age of seventeen or eighteen, that star-studded view has waned slightly.

For “slightly”, read “entirely.”

Each student had their own way of coping with the offence that was seven a.m.

For some of the truly sickening ones, it was a bracing early morning run.  Others ignored it entirely, refusing to acknowledge the existence of the universe until at least eight.

Amongst this breed was Hugo Weasley. Hugo was of the mindset that, actually, most crimes committed before nine a.m could probably have been avoided if a good cup of coffee had been available as an alternative to homicide. A good cup of coffee, to Hugo, was basically tar, full of sugar, served immediately and by the gallon.

It was as he was nursing a cup of this gloop that he was pounced on.

“Hu!”

Crap.

“Malfoy.” Hugo sighed, resignation colouring his tone. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be crawling out of your girlfriend’s bed or streaking around the lake?”

“I don’t think you fully grasp the meaning of ‘streaking.’” Scorpius hazarded, parking himself next to Weasley #2. Hugo was ginger. Hugo was very ginger. Rose, Scorpius would always be adamant, was auburn. Which is _very_ different, ask anyone, _Merlin’s beard_.  “I can’t run, mate, they put my legs on wrong.  I have two left feet. Anyway, about last night-”

“I saw nothing. I will tell no one.” Hugo intoned, looking for all the world as though Scorpius were holding him captive under a bright light whilst pulling out his toenails. “Are we done, Malfoy?”

Scorpius blinked. “What?”

“I said-”

“What.”

“Malfoy,”

“Hugo, I’m talking about the fact that you gambled away your sister so that you could play a hand of cards.”

_Blink. Blink._

And then Hugo groaned, and Scorpius deftly rescued the younger lad’s bacon in the second before Hugo sank his head onto the table. “ _Fuck.”_

“Now, mate,” Scorpius said, mouth already half full of Hugo’s bacon. “It’s really not that bad. Honestly. Pinky swear. All you have to do is tell her-”

“Are you _out of your mind?_ I am not telling Rose?!”

“Telling me what?”

 

* * *

 

 

The Weasley-Granger household was nestled in between two of the famous Cotswold lakes, and the house oozed personality. It had always reminded Rose of a fading debutante, well past her prime, who insisted on holding on to the glitz of a bygone era. It had a splendid balcony that ran around the house, but the surrounding garden had been taken over by wildflowers and whichever wildlife fancied living rent-free in relative luxury. Rose’s fat cat occasionally attempted to snack on the feathered residents, but he had a moral standing against exercise so his success rates were low.

On this particular morning, Hermione was settled amongst this wilderness with a cup of Earl Grey and Maebeck’s latest from the elvish freedom fighters of the Czech Republic. Ron was loudly debating the merits and demerits of putting petrol or diesel in the car, as if his _parents-in-law_ weren’t bona fide _muggles._

“Does it only take one?” he was asking loudly, and Hermione flipped a page in the report.

“You know it does, Ronald.”

Silence. An ominous _glugging_. And then a loud _bang_ that vaguely registered on Hermione’s radar.

“Fuck!”

“Ronald!”

Hermione paused, halfway through turning another page. A cacophonous scuffling came from the garage, and she was seriously contemplating action, when her husband came stomping out, an owl firmly attached to his ear. 

“This is _ridiculous_ ,” he was fuming. “A bloke can’t even put Dettol in the bloody car without the wildlife attacking.”

“A bloke shouldn’t put Dettol in the car, full stop.” Hermione said wryly as she detached the bird, massaging Ron’s ear briefly. “That’s surface cleaner.”

Ron looked nonplussed, before shrugging it off. “Huh. Well. There’s surface cleaner in the car, ‘Mione.”

But Hermione was unrolling the slim piece of parchment that had been attached to the owl. Their daughter’s skidding, untidy hand coated the page- her letters large and irate and _“Hugo Weasley!”_ Hermione exclaimed, furious.

Ron looked up sharply, “What?”

“ _Your son!_ ” And the letter was thrust in her husband’s direction.

The ginger’s raucous laughter could be heard by fishermen, a mile away at the lake’s shore.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, Hugo supposed that he _was_ sort of grateful for the fact that he received the howler. It meant that he was still alive. It meant that despite that icy look in his older sister’s eyes, and despite the really quite overly dramatic wandwork and the fact that Rose’s voice got steely when she was furious – he was alive. So in a spiritual sense, yes, he could definitely be considered grateful.

The shreds of red envelope fluttered down around him at lunch. His mother’s voice still rang in his ears, and his dignity had shredded right along with it. Rose, when Finnegan had slipped in next to her, had said “No.” so flatly that really, it hadn’t even been worth brokering the question.  Scorpius snorted, and the world’s karma was restored.

Saluting Rose with a carrot baton, Amy said “I’m totally behind you not letting Hugo sort your dates for you, but this does leave the question of who _are_ you going to go to the World’s Ball with?”

Rose shrugged expansively. “Hu did not try and sort a date for me – he gambled me. Anybody could have won! _Scorpius_ could have won?!”

“And you’d have loved every second of it.” Scorpius drawled. “I’m a superb dancer. Unless it’s something other than the robot – then I’m out.”

Rose made a face at him before turning back to Amy. “Can we please focus on the fact that we only have three full days of training before the House Cup, and worry about dances after Sunday?”

Amy seemed to mull over her options before gratifying Rose with a nod. “If we must.”

“That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

Amy allowed for this graciously, waving a hand. “You’re most welcome, Cap.”

 

* * *

 

 

Later that afternoon, Scorpius was making his way to join Albus at the greenhouses. Due to a general sense of hysteria in the school about approaching exams, final year students had been given several hours of free “study time” per week. It seemed to be a strategy to save the mental health of the older students, rather than to have any educational benefit. Accordingly, Scorpius used his spare time appallingly – Albus, as far as Scorpius could tell, used his to dote on flora and fauna that probably loved him as much as he loved them.

It was as he made his way through the cloisters surrounding the courtyard that he heard his name called. The sun was spilling through them, and Scorp had been only too happy to shed cloak and scarf at the promise of warmer days. He wore his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow, his tie loose but miraculously present. Really, he thought that he should be awarded house points for that – This continual taking points away was getting sort of ridiculous. His mother didn’t bother chiding him in her letters anymore – it tended to be covered in her usual “be good, don’t break anything expensive, much love from Dad and me, etc.”  

“Scorpius!” He turned at the sound. Naya was hurrying towards him, black hair in a high, swinging ponytail. “Merlin, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Well, you found me.” Scorpius said, gesturing. He’d seen her once, briefly, since leaving the hospital wing the day before. She’d rushed past in the corridor, stopping just to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth before hastening on. So there was no word of her noticeable absence from the infirmary, no “ah well, chap. Good to see you on your feet.”

Not much of anything, really.

“Scorpius,” Naya said, catching up. “I’ve been thinking, and-”

“I try not to, it’s painful.”

Naya didn’t laugh, but she did force a beautifully painted smile. Her lips were a rich creamy burgundy today – the kind of colour that Scorpius had once taken great pleasure in messing up, but the backlash had been too much of a cost recently. Still, Scorp appreciated the effort.

 “You okay, babe?” He asked, leaning back against one of the stone traceries.

Naya paused in front of him, fingering the strap of her bag. “I’ve been thinking about the ball – about the photos that are going to be taken. You know that they’re getting Felix Hennequin in to take them?”

“Nope,” Scorp answered with an easy shrug, “But I have no idea who that guy is, either.”

Nodding, Naya ran a fingernail over an intimidatingly perfect brow. “He shot the wedding of Victoire and Edward Lupin last year, the spread for Magyk Moments, he did the entirety of last May for muggle _Vogue-_ ”

“Teddy Lupin?” Scorp interrupted. “Are we talking Teddy and Vic Lupin?” He’d been at the wedding, held last June at a castle in Edinburgh. The wedding had been gorgeous, if you could excuse the groom’s hair turning a truly startling shade of pink when told that he could kiss the bride.

“Oh, of course you know them – Edward is your cousin.” Scorp’s posture stiffened slightly where he leant against the stone. There was something about Naya’s tone – the snobbish way that she said “ _Oh, of course.”_ that rankled with Scorp. So his tone was sharper than the usual lazy drawl when he went:

“ _Teddy_ is, yeah. Second cousin or something. But Weasley invited me to the wedding – my side of the family isn’t exactly chummy.”

Naya crossed her arms. “The World’s Ball is bringing together nations, so it’s going to be featured most everywhere. The Daily Prophet will obviously run it, but Beauxbatons are attending – and you _know_ what the French are like – and Durmstrang and the Americans; The photos will be seen by thousands, and you know they’ll want a shot of you. The Malfoy heir. You and the Potters and the Weasleys – you’ll certainly be photographed.”

Scorp felt a sick dread grow in his stomach, and he was fairly certain that it had nothing to do with the potential for a wardrobe malfunction. “It’s ages away, Nay. Surely we can put of talking matching outfits until a bit closer to the time? I don’t do suits.”

There was a flicker in Naya’s gorgeous dark eyes, and it left Scorpius with the certainty that things were about to get much worse. He childishly wanted to put his hands over his ears, or to stop time – anything to stop Naya before she could rip the ground out from underneath him.

 “Scorpius – I can’t go to the ball with you.” She said beseechingly, and Scorpius found that the world had turned bitterly, bitingly cold. “I’m leaving you.”

“And it’s not-” Naya carried on in response to Scorpius’s shell-shocked silence. “It’s not that you’ve _done_ anything wrong.  I – Merlin, this is so difficult, you know? There’s somebody else, Scorpius. I don’t want you to have to cut me out of all of the lovely photos that are going to be taken of you. Scorpius? Merlin, don’t just stand there staring. Say something.”

But he couldn’t. The blood was rushing in his ears. Someone had thumped him in the stomach, driving the air out of his lungs. “That’s very considerate of you.” He said flatly, lifelessly. “How kind.”

Naya pursed her lips, pulling her shirt sleeves down around her wrists. But they fell perfectly – of course they did. There was no need for adjustment. “I’d hoped this could be - if not friendly - then at least amicable. Don’t be difficult, Scorpius. You know that we both want very different things from life.”

Shocked, Scorpius laughed once, harshly. “Sounds about right. I have never wanted anyone but you, and you want – who is it, Nay? What’s his name?” Scorpius found that he had to know – betrayal swam through his veins, made his crisp accent sharper and harder. “Shit - Oh God, it all makes sense. All of this time you've been _in the library._ Who, Naya? _Why?_ ”

“Oh, don’t pretend that you’re the wounded party, here.” Naya’s voice was rising, and it echoed around the stone cloisters that she’d sequestered them in. “ _Don’t_ you _dare_ claim that you have only wanted _me._ ”

Scorpius stared stiffly at her, breathing shallowly, fingernails stabbing into his palms. “And just what,” he said darkly, “do you mean by _that._ ”

“Making me look like a fool.” Naya spat, venom in her voice. “Because _everyone_ can see that you and Rose Weasley are _nothing_ but _friends.”_

“We are!” Scorpius cried, the ludicrousness of the situation doing nothing to diminish the heat coursing through his veins. “Fucking _hell_ , Naya. Have you, what, _slept_ with this other guy? Has this been going on behind my back? _Have I been totally blind?_ ” All at once, it was like his energy was spent. He deflated, tall frame somehow looking small. He sounded tired when he said, “Naya, please.” He sounded broken.

The Hispanic girl nodded mutely, reaching out to take Scorpius’s hands. He let her, a puppet with cut strings. “I hope we can move past this and be friends.”

Scorpius took his hands back, eyes turning steely at the word “friends”. “Yeah, I doubt it. I really doubt it. I want my shit back, Naya. All of it. The key – All of it. Leave it outside the common room. Merlin – I thought you’d have cared enough to tell me if you wanted out. Not just because of fucking photos. ”

Naya looked angry again, the momentary softness gone. She was always, Scorpius realised with a pang, going to be the princess in her ivory tower. You played the game her way, or off with your head. “Fine.”

Nothing else. Just “fine.”

Scorpius shook his head once, lips twisting. His footsteps resounded around the cloisters as he turned away - his palms bled from eight crescent-shaped puncture wounds.

 

* * *

 

 

Scorpius never made it back to lessons that day. He was barely aware of other students calling his name as he strode back through the castle grounds. He acknowledged each “Malfoy, mate!” with a raised hand and a tight smile, and each time he wondered if they already knew. He had already decided that he wouldn’t try to work out who had replaced him in Naya’s affections, in her bed.  But still, the thoughts came to him unbidden – Her head thrown back, mid-laugh, for someone else. Someone else’s hands gliding up her smooth thighs, someone else sighing her name, her _fucking name._

He found himself at the foot of the quidditch pitch without thinking about it. It was deserted. Scorpius had bitten the inside of his cheek – he could taste the bitter, coppery tang of blood. _He could see the arch of her back._

He rasped a hand over his face, and pulled his tie from around his neck. He’d been warned of damaging new bones, but he didn’t think he had any fucking heart left, let alone bones. He craved the mindless roar of the wind in his ears – The last time he shattered it had been on a broom. He might as well do it again.

 

* * *

 

 

“Weasley?”

“Mmm?”

Rose had a quill stuffed in between her teeth, another clamped in between her fingers. Amy’s transfiguration essay was crammed under her elbow, and she’d paid the younger girl three chocolate frogs to be allowed to copy (borrow) half of Amy’s research and to work it into her NEWTs coursework. Rose had done no revision, voting instead to focus on the upcoming House Cup and more pressing coursework. Times were desperate, and needs must.

“One of your players is on the pitch.”

Rose looked up and saw a Hufflepuff fourth year standing in front of her, twisting their fingers.

“That’s cool, Hinkley. It is Hinkley, right? Right. Could be a free period – we’ve got a match coming up.”

The fourth year nodded impatiently, as if to say “uh, yeah, the whole _school_ knows that.”

“He’s been flying since three o’clock. He’s doing this.” And Hinkley made a fast, jerky diving motion with his hand.

“Oh.” _Pause._ “What time is it now?”

The Hufflepuff’s eyebrows shot upwards. Rose wanted to gesture at the piles of parchment around her and to say “Don’t judge!”

“They just started serving dinner.”

“ _Shit.”_

Hinkley looked a little disappointed in her.

 

Rose came onto the pitch at a jog. The sky was starting to turn dark – streaks of ochre shot across the sky, and as she shaded her eyes against the remainder of the sun, Rose picked out a lone figure high, high above the regulation flight space. As quickly as she found them, the flyer was gone, lost in the sun.

“Don’t be Malfoy.” Rose moaned, having visons of plummeting bodies and gruesome recoveries. “Or just don’t be Gryffindor, Merlin.”

 But of course, it was. And it was.

 

* * *

 

Scorp was doing amazingly, actually. Thanks very much for asking. He hadn’t bothered kitting up and the wind chill had done a number on him, pressing his white school shirt against his body. A happy side effect of this was that he was so concentrated on actually staying on the broom and going as fast as possible, that he hadn’t seen Naya’s face in his mind for at least twenty minutes.

Oh, wait, no. Nevermind – that undid that.

The obvious solution to that particular problem was to fly very, very fast at the ground. He could handle this! He was an adult, adults handled shit.

So he tilted his broom downwards, pulling it out of it’s nightmarishly fast straight. His muscles screamed as he and the broom hurtled towards the ground – and he did, too. He opened his mouth, and let the wind tear Naya’s name from his lungs one final time.

He came to a shuddering stop, mere meters above the short, cropped grass of the pitch. Scorp’s chest was heaving, his eyes burning and dry.

“I’m okay.” He muttered, doing slow, lazy loops. “I’m o-”

“Scorpius?”

He glanced up from his broom, and was oddly unsurprised to see Rose – similarly dressed in a white button down shirt and no flight kit, although she’d had the foresight to grab a pair of goggles. She pulled them off and let them hang loosely around her neck, red hair flying around her face in careless, haphazard waves. Scorpius sort of knew that she’d always been beautiful. He’d known it the second that he met her when they were eleven, with that wall of paternal distrust between them. It had just become a fact over the years; It had been lost under the way that she snorted when she laughed and went through that phase of flicking off everybody when she was fourteen and _never_ stopped moving her hands. It seemed like a peculiar time for it to raise it’s head again. But then, Scorpius, supposed, he had just had his heart trampled on. He wasn’t seeing anything objectively. And Rose was wearing warm compassion in her eyes – and that goddamn hair.

“What are you doing?”

It was a very simple question. But it all seemed a bit much, really.

“She’s been sleeping with someone else, Rosie.” Scorp hadn’t meant to say it, it just came out. He’d meant to be glib and unbothered and _Scorpius_ but he didn’t know who that was, anymore. He dimly noticed that his hands had turned blue, that his muscles had started quivering, exhausted. “She’s fucking sleeping with somebody else.”

He didn’t hear Rose’s sharp intake of breath, but he saw the hand that gestured towards the Gryffindor stands. “Give me five minutes.” Rose pulled her goggles back over her eyes. “Wait for me there.”

 

* * *

 

 

The stands were more sheltered than the rest of the pitch, the brisk wind hitting the red and gold panelling and dissipating. Rose climbed the wooden stairs and saw Scorpius huddled at the far end. His broom was abandoned by his side, and the whole picture had a bleak air about it. Rose was furious. Rose was absolutely furious.

Scorp registered Rose sliding in next to him dimly, as if it were happening and he were watching from a distance. She was giving off a kind of heat and he found himself drawn to it, coming back to reality with a jolt.

Rose said nothing. She simply held out a bottle of fire-whiskey, before saying “You alright, Malfoy?”

Scorpius reached for the bottle. “I have absolutely no idea.”

They were still there an hour later.

No more than ten sentences had been exchanged. Scorpius sat staring out over the pitch, trying not to remember and failing. Rose’s arm pressed into his, the warm weight of companionship doing something to keep the tall boy by her side grounded. “It’s all coming back to me.” He said at last, and Rose started. Her mind had been wondering – murder seemed like the obvious solution to Scorpius’s shattered face.

“What is?”

Scorp gestured vaguely around the pitch, at the school; “The memories. From the beginning. We were fine, right?”

Sensing this wasn’t a question that needed an answer, Rose just leant closer in to Scorpius and waited.

“And I had no idea,” Scorpius carried on, the tide of anger that had been a quiet hum since he’d blindly grabbed hold of his broom turning into a full bodied roar. “Absolutely no idea. How did that _happen?_ How was I so fucking _blind_ to miss the fact that she wanted out? All she had to do was say. I’d have understood. I just – I don’t understand.”

Rose said nothing, and Scorp glanced at her to see if she was still listening to his pity party. He should really have provided finger food. Rose was biting her lip, clearly debating. “What?”

“No, it’s just – I think you do. I think you do understand, and that’s what’s wrecking you.”

“I really don’t. Why not fucking say if you’re unhappy? Just ‘Oh, by the way _babe_ , I think I’ll nail somebody else instead. No offence.’”

Rose snorted. Scorpius looked wounded, before raising one eyebrow. “That wasn’t supposed to be funny, Weasley. I’m in pain, here.”

“Right, sure.” Rose waved a decidedly unapologetic hand. “So sorry.”

Scoffing, Scorpius took another slug from the crystalline bottle. As the level of golden, husky liquid dropped, the world took on a softer light. “Scorp, Scorp.”

“Huh?”

“That’s not even the worst part, is it?”

“It’s not the _best_ part, though.”

“No, but what I’m saying is – It’s like you come out the other side and you don’t remember the person that you were before.”

Scorpius reached between them and silently linked their hands together. “Thank you for-” _understanding, saying that, not telling me to get over it_ “being here.”

Rose shrugged. “Wasn’t like I had anywhere else to be.”

Silence fell around them again, and Scorpius unconsciously ran his thumb over the back of Rose’s hand. “Let’s destroy Ravenclaw on Sunday.”


	7. i call it magic, when i'm with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which everybody is naked (apart from mcgonagall)

News of the breakup spread travelled through the sandstone corridors as a trickle and then as a flood. By the next day, Naya and another dark haired Ravenclaw were inseparable and only aided and abetted the rumours.  Scorpius was well aware of this – he overheard the “Oh Merlin, did you hear about-” at breakfast, the “Shit, Diggle, guess what I-” on the way to astronomy, the “I’m going to have to cheat if I’m going to get through this.” “Oh, speaking of!” on the way _out_ of astronomy. It was a story that created ripples in all directions. In the snippets that he’d caught, ears instinctively pricking when he heard his name, Scorpius realised that there were different reactions. The solicitous whispers seemed to be split between anger on his behalf and those fucking awful unsurprised nods. Those hurt. Those really hurt. How, he wondered every time, how had he been so blinkered?

In the days preceding the match, Scorp surrounded himself with his friends. They got it. They understood. Albus had winced when Scorpius had told him – his voice dispassionate as if it had happened to somebody else. But that had been the end of it. By the next morning, Scorpius was chasing the Fucking Watch around under the furniture and Albus was whinging. The first time that Scorpius had been involved in a breakup, he’d been fourteen and Albus had waved a packet of playing cards at him and told him to stop being so overdramatic. This time, Albus waved a packet of playing cards at him and told him to stop being so overdramatic. Thre’s was a friendship that was tried and true.

Rose, Scorpius was coming to realise, was very much like a duck. On the surface she was calm and collected, with legs kicking up a maelstrom underneath. On later days, when Scorpius asked if she knew just who was responsible for Naya being inexplicably bald for a day, or just why the dark haired girl was speaking only in rhyme, Rose denied everything; The picture of innocence. But there was no one else in the school quite as talented, or, possibly, as motivated.

 

* * *

 

Match day drew ever nearer; Tensions mounted, bets were discreetly placed – although every teacher knew about the betting pool. Rumour had it that several were invested, and Scorp knew for a fact that Hugo Weasley had placed two galleons against Gryffindor for his father. Despite Scorpius’s best efforts, the match had become personal. Perhaps the breakup of one of Gryffindor’s most notorious students and the princess of Ravenclaw mere days before the match was bad for moral, but it was great for business. Hanks and Scorp still ran together every morning after a tense few seconds.

“I’ve got to say it,” Hanks had said eventually, breaking a pensive silence. “I heard what happened. Think it’s a load of shite, personally.”

“Than-”

“I’m not done.” Hanks stopped in the path and Scorp did, too. The stockier boy stared hard at the Gryffindor, before reaching out and clapping a hand to the taller lad’s shoulder. “I’m playing this match on Sunday, and I’m playing to win.” He smiled slowly, wryly, and Scorp wondered where this was going. “But I’m a betting man, Malfoy. I’ve got money on you. You and your lunatic captain. I’m either winning or losing on Sunday, don’t really care. I’m just glad we’re mates.”

And Scorpius was reminded of why he liked the Ravenclaw so much. “Fucking sentimentalist.” He mumbled at his feet, before looking up and catching Hanks’s eye. “Me too, Hanks. Me too.”

Hanks had nodded once, as if that settled something, and had taken off again. Scorp has watched his back for a moment, bemused and – as he’d later recount to Weasley – all warm and fuzzy inside.

* * *

 

Friday night saw the Gryffindor players huddled around Rose’s layout of the match. She wore her rich, scarlet hair pulled back in a ponytail but still strands escaped to whip at the holographic players on the cardboard pitch. The team’s red cloaks were flapping in time with a brisk breeze which had been building all day, and Finnegan was taking issue with it.

“Really?! Cap, be reasonable, would ya?! There’s no way the weather conditions on Sunday are gonna let us fly like that.”

Rose was unimpressed, one eyebrow arched. “Oh, come on. What’s the worst that could happen, Ronan? So we muck up the turns – that’s _fine-”_

“Death. Death could happen.”

Rose allowed for this with a nod that said that perhaps, but that it was a perfectly reasonable sacrifice to make.

“Let’s keep it down, chaps.” Amy Fletcher said warningly, eyeballing the side of the pitch. From the stands, several faces peered down at them. By now it was common practice to spy on the other team’s training sessions. Students from both Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had been skiving lessons to scout out the others (the sheer lack of attendance in class had been drawing attention from teachers and students alike, with one handing out detentions like they were hot and the other treating the skivers with admiration or scorn) but it was true that the Ravenclaws suffered significantly more guilt over this. Ravenclaw had trained earlier that morning, and Hanks had cheerfully pulled a finger across his exposed throat when he noticed Scorpius waving at him gleefully from his sentry point in the stands.

“We either play it safe,” Rose was arguing heatedly, colour rising in her cheeks, “and we do exactly what we’ve always done and they’ll expect it straight away. Or we just _try_ the Holyhead formation! And if we die - which we won’t - then we went down fighting, right?”

“Or,” Scorpius contributed over Ronan’s retorts, when it looked as though the slight girl might well deck the Irishman, “We play in the nude. They’ll never see that coming.”

Scorpius was ignored.

Ronan opened his mouth again, oozing righteousness, when Fletcher slapped a hand over his mouth.

“I’m with Malfoy.”

Scorpius gaped. “ _You are?_ ”

“Well obviously, I think your idea is idiotic, but it could be a laugh for our last training session before the match.”

“I love you, Fletch, but are you out of your-” Rose stopped in her tracks. “You know what, that could be a good idea.”

Scorpius was horrified.

“Let’s do it.”

 

* * *

 

_From the desk of Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress, Order of Merlin (First Class)_

 

_Dear Mr and Mrs Weasley-Granger,_

_I write to inform you of an incidence that occurred earlier this evening (Friday the 10 th of March) in which your daughter, Rose-_

 

_Dear Mr and Mrs Malfoy,_

_I write to inform you of an incidence that occurred earlier this evening-_

 

_Dear Mrs Fletcher,_

_I write to inform you of an incidence that-_

 

_Dear Mr and Mrs Finnegan,_

_I write to inform you-_

 

_Dear Albus,_

_How I wish you had seen what the Gryffindor team decided to do just over an hour ago. You, I am sure, would have found the entire situation quite entertaining. At just past a quarter to nine, young Dawkins from Ravenclaw (You would remember Dawkins the elder – dreadful child. Just dreadful) came rushing into me in the corridor in the most ungainly of manners. The child was yelling about the Gryffindor team flying around, naked as babies._

_Well, they weren’t quite. They of course wore eye protection which was most sensible, and modesty was preserved. Ronald Weasley’s child was at the heart of it, Albus. I do not know what to do with her…_

 

* * *

 “And just who,” A voice had boomed from the darkness gathering at the edge of the pitch. It was rich and intimidating both in it’s impatience and Scottish-ness. “Is behind all of this?”

Minerva McGonagall had seen a lot of things in her life. She had, after all, lived a long one. But the sight of the red and gold capes of Gryffindor house, of _her_ house, keeping the chill off of some of her brightest students rumps, clad only in their underwear, was almost too much.

“Out of the air!” She yelled, voice carrying so far that the centaurs in the forest felt like they had done something very wrong. “At once!”

Students touched down around her, faces lit with sheepish smiles. “Isn’t it a lovely evening, Professor,” Malfoy said as he disembarked, and had McGonagall been marginally less absolutely furious, she might have agreed.

“Enough, Malfoy.” She snapped. The team gathered around her like puppies who knew they had done something a little wrong and they were a little sorry. But they weren’t puppies. They were her students and “What is the _meaning_ of this, Weasley?!” McGonagall demanded, rounding on the girl.

Weasley had gathered her cloak around her a little more firmly, flying goggles pushed up over her mass of flyaway hair. “Well Professor,” the girl began, “We were having a few issues regarding the Holyhead formation-”

“Do not play games with me.” McGonagall warned succinctly, sternly, and still Weasley maintained that impish look about her. “I’m of a mind to ban you all from playing on Sunday.”

That was enough. Rose went from looking as though this was all a jolly lark to looking queasy. “Oh Merlin, Professor, no; Please don’t! It really was that everyone had got so stressed and I thought-”

“Thought what, Miss Weasley?” The Scotswoman said primly, steely eyed. “That making a mockery of Gryffindor house was a good idea?”

“No, just that-”

“Detention, Miss Weasley. From now until Easter – and you may start at _once_.”

Rose looked distraught, “But the match-”

“You may still,” McGonagall said clearly, seeing the girl’s mother look back at her from the wide, distressed eyes. “play in the match. But make no mistake, Granger,” Rose tilted her head, “ _Weasley;_ This kind of behaviour will not be tolerated.”

Weasley nodded. The team behind her stood looking browbeaten but very much behind her. There was something about Weasleys that had always inspired this dogmatic _loyalty_ , McGonagall thought, frustrated.

“Very well,” She said, finality in her tone. “Then we’ll say no more on the matter. But for Merlin’s sake, would you all _put some clothes on._ ”

She turned her back on the mumbled “Yes, Proffessor’s” and “But these are my _Calvins,_ Proffesor’s” and strode across the grass pitch towards the school. As she thought of the letters she would now have to write, she allowed herself a small, wry smile. Albus would have been in stitches.

 

* * *

 

Back on the pitch, the tension left the team in a wave and turned to chattering as they bundled themselves off towards the changing rooms. Only Rose stayed behind, a muted expression on her face.

“Hey,” Scorp nudged her shoulder and she glanced up at him, worrying the inside of her cheek with her teeth. “It was a really _good_ idea.”

Rose snorted, smile briefly lighting her face. “You would say that,” she pointed out as she started towards the warmth. “You started it.”

“True!” Scorp agreed, keeping pace. “And I stand by the fact that it would have been even better if we were starkers. But we made the Holyhead formation work!”

Rose stilled, “Fuck it, we did. We actually did.”

“Yeah, turns out that when everyone relaxed-” Scorpius kept talking but Rose wasn’t really listening. The huge stadium lights had started glowing dully as the light had fled the sky, and it lit up Scorpius’s profile. Rose found herslef watching the dips of his collar bones, the movement of his jawbone, the way the scar on his neck shifted when he breathed – Rose was staring. Rose was staring and Rose was suddenly struck by the fact that this man was stunning.

“Rosie?” Oh Merlin, what was she doing?

“Mmm?”

“You okay?”

Rose dragged her gaze from the glimpse of shoulder that she could see under his cloak, the finely carved torso still littered with the latest accumulation of cuts and bruises.

“Fine,” She said hoarsely. “Just fine.”

She was no idiot. This was lust. Nothing else. This was the fact that they’d been flying around entirely unselfconsciously and it was the most like herself she had felt in months. This was the fact that he had just split it off with his girlfriend and that was the only reason she was even _letting_ herself look and –

She jerked when Scorp clutched her hand. “Stop striding off, Weasley. Jesus. You know McGonagall wasn’t really pissed, right? She loves y-”

Rose looked up and caught Scorpius’s grey eyes, and they changed. They _changed_. And all Rose could think was _“Oh shit,”_ in the moment before she rose up on her tiptoes to meet Scorpius’s lips.

 

* * *

 

“My evening was _fine_ ; Thank you so much for asking!” Albus cheerfully snarked as he peeled his shirt off in readiness for bed. “I had-” and his voice muffled as he stuffed a toothbrush in his mouth. “The mosht inshigurating conversashion wif Ernie Shackleforsh abousht those plantsh I’ve propogated”

“Ernie who?”

Scorpius was lying flat on his back. He’d been there, prone, a dazed look in his eye, since he’d made his way back from the pitch. The quidditch kit that the team had gleefully shed was back on, and he was entirely oblivious to the marks that his leather boots were leaving on his sheets.

“Ernie,” _spit_ “Shackleford.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, and he reckons that-” Albus’s voice muffled as he pulled his stripy pyjama top over his head. “if I spoke to the healers at St. Mungos-”

“I kissed your cousin.”

Albus got lost inside his shirt. “What the _hell,_ Malfoy!?” he cried out of an arm hole.

Scorpius had found a spider crawling in amongst the ceiling beams. “Yeah.”

“Why?!”

The spider attached itself to one beam and jumped, a trail of silk thread streaming from it.

“Dunno, mate.”

It alighted on the window sill. The moonlight caught the silver webbing and really, it was sort of tranquil.

 _“Malfoy!_ ”

Albus reappeared from the inside of his shirt, black hair an uncontrollable mess. “Why the hell would you kiss _my cousin_?” He moaned, looking traumatised. “You could have any rebound you wanted and you picked _my cousin?!”_

“Hey!” Scorp sat up, straight into the spider’s web. “Fuck, shit. Hey, no! Nobody said rebound?!”

Albus said nothing. Albus just _looked_ at him. And it was the same _look_ that Scorpius had got when he’d accidentally set fire to their dorm in third year, and it was the same _look_ that he’d got when he’d pleaded with Albus not to tell on him in fourth year because it _didn’t_ need stitches and couldn’t Al fix it? And it was the same _look_ that Scorpius had been given when he’d fucked up in first year, and he was terrified that Albus was going to walk away.

“She isn’t,” Scorpius said vehemently, swinging his legs off the bed and leaning forwards. “Al, mate, I wouldn’t _do_ that.”

Albus sat down heavily on his bed across from Scorpius. “Scorp, it’s not what I think. It’s what the rest of the school will think. Everybody else. Your team. Naya is already saying that you cheated on her with Rose – you’ve _heard_ all of those rumours. Don’t drag Rose into it, Scorp. You’ll make everything Naya is saying true. It’s not fair on her.”

Scorp blinked.  “But it’s not true?”

“You’re dense.”

“It’s honestly not.”

“I _know_ it’s not, you pleb. It’s everybody _else_.”

“They don’t matter.”

Albus groaned and let himself fall back on his bed. “Oh my God, you arse. Why are you like this.”

Scorpius didn’t really feel that that warranted an answer. But he gave it one anyway. “Daddy issues, mainly. I don’t think it matters, mate. I honestly doubt she’s even talking to me anymore.”

Albus groaned again.

“No, really; she was off like a light. I’ve never seen her move that fast.”

Pulling his covers firmly over his head, Albus sighed. “Why can’t you two just hate each other like everyone expected?”

 

* * *

Albus was deep in conversation with Hugo when Scorpius made it to breakfast the next morning. The redhead was warily chewing on a piece of toast whilst Al waved his hands around wildly. Scorp had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“What’s all this then, lads?” He asked, slipping in between Albus and a curly haired fourth year. He shot her an apologetic grin that she sniffed at. Shrugging, he turned his attention back to his friends. “Who are we talking about?”

“It’s not about someone.” Potter sounded affronted, and Scorpius tried not to relax too obviously as he helped himself to bacon. “It’s about a some _thing_.”

Scorp blinked owlishly at him, whilst Hugo nodded emphatically. “What’s a something when it’s at home?”

“I was telling you about it last night.” Al hedged, clearly begging Scorpius to quit being a dimwit and catch on. When the blond continued to look blank, he carried on: “I was telling you _all_ about it _._ ”

Scorpius chewed slowly on his bacon and looked around the table, hunting for inspiration. “I am very clever.”

“Pfft.”

“But in this case, you’ve lost me. Is it a ghost? Am I getting warmer? Is it Nick?”

Albus groaned in frustration and tugged on his black hair. “Malfoy, you are _looking_ at it. Right _now_.”

Leaning back on the bench, Scorpius looked the shorter boy up and down. He squinted. He tilted his head to one side. He tried another piece of bacon, wondering if it would help. It didn’t.

“Weasley – what am I missing?” He asked eventually, still scrutinizing Albus. “Because people are going to start talking if I stare much longer. Not-” He intervened quickly, “that I would mind. Because you’re a strapping bloke, Potter, really.”

“Asshole.”

“Look at his head.” Hugo suggested, happier now that Albus’s arms had stilled their flailing. “Helps if you kind of close one eye.”

Doing just so, Scorp fought the urge to leap out of his seat. “What the bloody-!?”

Around Albus’s head, invisible until they caught the light, tiny spores appeared and disappeared. They had thin tendrils coming off of them and they clung to Potter’s hair. “Al, you’ve got dandruff!”

“Asshole.”  Al said mildly whilst Hugo sniggered.

“What _are_ they?!”

“And,” Hugo cut in, clearly resuming the conversation that had restarted when Scorpius joined them. “ _why_ did you bring them to breakfast?”

“They,” Albus said with a cocky grin. “are dust mites.”

Scorpius knew dust mites. They collected in his house, which would always feel cavernous no matter how many paintings and newspaper clippings and childish finger paintings the family stuck to the walls. “Albus, they are not. They have _wiggly bits_.”

The fourth year at Scorpius’s elbow giggled, and Scorp looked down at her and frowned for a moment. “You should not have found that funny. You shouldn’t appreciate the humour in that.” He chastened, and then gaped. “Oh good _God,_ I’m my father.”

“They can pick up the bacteria that spread infection.” Albus explained when Scorpius returned his attention to the matter at hand. “They’re the spores of-”

“That mouldy stuff you’ve been breeding on the window sill?!”

“Exactly.”

“No _way._ ” Scorpius stared open-mouthed at the area above Albus’s head. “So they stop-”

“The spread of illness and disease, exactly.”

“Holy sh-” The fourth year looked up at Scorpius expectantly. He cut himself off.  “Good gracious, Al.”

Albus looked pleased with himself, and rightfully so. “I’m taking a sample to the Head Healer at St. Mungo’s this coming holiday to see if they’re of any use.”

Scorpius just nodded, astonished. “You’re a bloody genius, mate.” He looked around the table for the person he’d usually exchange a proud, parental grin with. “Where’s Rose?”


	8. we will be victorious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is a house cup final, flobberworms, and kissing. not necessarily in that order.
> 
> title from muse's "uprising"

Rose was still in bed.

The cotton sheets were pulled into a cocoon around her, and she kept both eyes stubbornly closed. The castle woke up around her, and still she refused to budge. The door creaked open as one of the house-elves deposited the clean laundry, and Rose snuffled into her sheets but stayed obstinately still. She heard the door close. For the first time in years, she heard Amy wake up first and stretch – when Fletcher yawned, all the musicality went out of the girl. All of it. It was loud and it was the kind of decisive “I’m awake” sound that Rose had no intention of making. She heard Amy crack the bones in her back, slide her legs off the bed – and gasp.

“Did you _die?!_ ”

“Urgfh”

“Jesus Christ, Rose. Is this the plague? Should I be worried? Do we need a priest to recite the last rites?!”

“You’re funny.” Rose groaned into her pillow, not sounding the slightest bit amused. “I’m staying here. This is my home, now.”

There was the sound of light footsteps in the second before Amy pounced with a delighted squeal.

“Get off me!” Rose whined as she and the mattress sunk under the weight of the other girl. “God, Ames, you are the _worst.”_

 _“_ You love me!” Amy said, bouncing up and down on Rose’s huddled form to cement her point. “Say it!”

“Never!”

“Say it!”

“Death first!”

“We could sort that!” A pillow clutched in hand, Amy rose it above her head to deliver the death blow. Her stomach cut the action short with an ominous hungry rumble and she paused. It was all Rose needed to roll out from under the blonde girl with the kind of dexterity that proved her well on the pitch.

“Freedom!” She cried, but her victory was disregarded by Amy. The girl was staring at her incredulously.

“Rose, did you miss _breakfast_?”

“Maybe.” Rose waved a non-committal hand. Being turfed out of the safety of her bed wasn’t ideal, but she could manage. It was a big castle. Plenty of places to avoid a single overly-tall other student. “It felt like a lie-in day, y’know?”

She felt rather than saw Amy’s flat gaze. “Rose. You haven’t stayed in bed past eight since last Christmas’s do.”

Keeping her expression neutral, Rose shrugged and smiled glibly over her shoulder as she reached for her hairbrush. “First time for everything!”

“What is going _on?!”_ Amy sounded exasperated. She was making no effort to get changed, sitting on Rose’s bed with a pillow clutched to her stomach. “Rose Weasley, would you sit still and _talk_ to me?”

Heartbeat loud in her ears, Rose pulled open her top drawer and rooted around for a t-shirt. It was Saturday. No need for uniform. “I made out with Scorp last night.”

“ _What?!”_ It was lucky that there were no flies around at this time of year; Amy’s jaw had dropped open. “ _What?!”_

“Yeah,” It was difficult to tell with Rose’s back to her, but Amy got the feeling that she was a little, tightly wrapped ball of anxiety. “Yeah.”

The pillow wheezed as Amy loosened her hold slightly. “Okay.” She paused. “Was it good?”

 _Now_ Rose looked at her. She opened her mouth, already starting to shake her head, before apparently changing her mind. “Freaking amazing.” The girl said instead, impish grin lighting up her features. “But,” she resumed her rummaging, because apparently _clothes_ were more important than this _bombshell_. “it’s nothing, right? It’s a rebound. He’s hurting, I was there, nothing will come of it. Nothing _should_ come of it. I have far more self-respect than to be Scorpius Malfoy’s rebound. He’s probably spaced and forgotten the whole thing – you know what he’s like. So if I just, y’know, _avoid_ him-” Rose was running out of steam. “Then everything will be normal and fine. Just fine.”

Words, Amy found, had abandoned her. She was just picturing Scorpius and Rose together and, honestly, it looked right. All of the casual touching and the long glances and the inside jokes and the fact that one was never very far from the other and the fact that Rose and he didn’t _loathe_ each other like _everyone_ seemed to think that they should and the instinctive thoughtfulness and the mind-reading and _“Oh, my God, Rose.”_

Defensive, Rose’s back stiffened again. “What?!”

Amy was staring at her, blue eyes wide. “You love him. Not just like family. You love him. You do.”

And Rose suddenly looked a little bit small and a little bit sad, and she nodded. Because she did. She did.

 

 

It had been just over seven hours – seven very constructive hours – of Scoprius avoidance when Rose was finally cornered. She had finished her transfiguration essay. She had stripped her bed. She had owled her parents and her aunt and her penpal in Romania and she had played with her cat… It wasn’t even avoidance! Not really! It was just being busy.

Or that’s what she had been telling herself – and Amy – anyway.

Unfortunately, time and detention wait for no woman. She found herself up to her elbows in flobberworms, picking out the good ones and flicking the bad ones into a bubbling cauldron where they sort of plopped a bit and then exploded. The smell was noxious, the dungeons cold, and Rose was sure that flying around naked did not deserve this kind of punishment. They weren’t even naked! They were nude. It was artistic.

_Plop. Hiss. Boom._

“This is medieval!” Rose told Nearly-Headless Nick who had drifted out of the next room a few moments before. “Archaic!”

_Plop. Hiss. Boom._

“Not at all!” Nick replied cheerfully, adjusting his cape around him as he hovered comfortably above a nearby desk. He had one leg crossed over another, elbows propped on his knee. He was the picture of dandy grace, and though he had offered to help (“Little use, I’m afraid dear. Simply can’t hold a thing.”) he seemed content to simply watch and offer unhelpful advice. “Why, back in the medieval times there were _proper_ detentions!” A door opened, but it didn’t distract the ghost who was reliving the odious evils of a time long past. “The whippings weren’t even the worst, child. Not by a long way. And then there were the-”

_Plop. Hiss. Boom._

The door closed with a thud and Rose glanced up, fully expecting yet another delivery of flobberworms from a house-elf who _couldn’t_ be paid enough for the job. Instead, she saw Scorpius’s cheeky, guileless smile.

“Why couldn’t you be a flobberworm?” She complained as soon as he got close enough to hear. He crossed the room in easy strides and raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

“Well, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very, very much-” Scorp started, collapsing down onto the flagstones opposite her as she viciously chucked another of the offensive creatures into the cauldron. _Plop. Hiss. Boom._ “Hey, Nick.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Malfoy!” The ghost replied cheerfully, tipping his head in Scorp’s direction. The fact that he found it easiest to do this by literally taking hold of his hair and tugging was enough to send first years squealing down the halls. “Do you, too, hold the burden of our potion supplies?”

Scorpius gave a “what-can-you-do” shrug. “Detention is just no fun on your own,” he said ruefully. Nick beamed, apparently delighted by the solidarity between his house’s students.

“And that _is_ the truth. Well,” the ghost shook himself off and stood, head still shaking slightly on an otherwise motionless neck. “I must be off. The Baron is not a patient man, don’t you know! Best of luck, best of luck!” And he drifted straight through the wall.

Scorpius stared at the place where he’d disappeared for a moment. “I don’t think I will ever get used to that,” he said. He turned his attention to Rose, staring at her hard for a minute. “You’re avoiding me.”

“Am not.” Rose muttered mutinously. _Plop. Hiss. Boom._ “I’ve been _busy._ ”

“Right.” Scorpius stuck his hands into the vat of flobberworms she was dealing with. “Busy. Right. I have looked _everywhere for you._ I’m calling BS.”

“Language.”

“Oh, are we censoring letters now? I think we should start with ‘Z’ – No one really uses that one.”

“Arse.” Rose cracked a smile, before glancing up at Scorpius. He’d thought that she seemed uneasy a moment ago, but it looked like he had been wrong. There was nothing uncertain about her gaze at all. Her face was set in an expression somewhere between determination and… resignation? “Malfoy, about last night,”

“What about it?” Scorp affected nonchalance as he pulled a puce coloured wriggling monstrosity from the vat. “Oh, ew. Gross. What about it?”

There was a moment of dead air as Rose gathered her resources. Clearly, this was not any kind of a discussion she’d been hoping to have today. “I, okay, Merlin – I care about you,” Scorp felt something warm and unexpected tug at his chest. He had lost any interest in the mass of fuck-no between the pair of them, and was watching Rose with an expression akin to wonder. “and I _meant_ everything.”

There was a heavy moment as the pair _looked_ at each other. “Everything?” Scorp questioned, hands still submerged. Only too happy to end this – God, _whatever this was_ – Rose plunged her hands back to work, stomach tensing. Amy’s advice was so stupid and she would _tell_ the girl as much. Oh, just tell him, Rose! Nothing can go wrong, Rose! He obviously feels the same way, “Rose! Rosie.” There he was, grabbing her hands and forcing her to look at him. “Merlin’s beard, Weasley. You ran off!”

“I did not.” Rose’s bottom lip jutted out like a petulant toddler.

“Yes, _you did._ You ran off and there I was thinking – ew, ew, wait, flobberworm – there I was thinking that I’d totally _fucked things up._ If I read it wrong – if I shouldn’t have kissed you – can you just say and then we can both obliviate each other and not tell Albus?”

“You didn’t kiss me.”

“I-” Scop was flummoxed. Rose had set her jaw. “I did. I’m pretty sure I did. Unless you have a twin? Is that a thing? Because tell her to hit me up, Merlin.”

“I kissed you.”

“You didn’t. It was my idea. Don’t take this away from me. I kissed you.”

“I kissed _you_.”

“Excuse me, _I-”_

“I kissed you, Malfoy. Shut up and deal with-”

Scorpius lurched forwards over the bucket, and, just to clear matters up, kissed her. Her hands were fists, resting on the cold metal lip of the bucket of ew, and he uncurled them, finger by finger, until he could lace their hands together. He was kissing her, and she had melded herself to him, meeting Scorpius’s soft movements with her own – they were rougher, more demanding, and like _everything_ about this girl, they were so _alive_. One, two, and Scorpius realised that every other kiss paled in comparison to this. Three, four, and he realised that he could feel her smiling against his lips. He kissed her and tried to forget that he might never get the chance again. He kissed her, and held onto her and onto that sliver of forever, with everything that he had left. He kissed her, and kissed her; And Rose kept kissing him back.

She pulled away with a brush of her lips against his cheek – soft, burning, kind – and so gentle that it could have been a ghost and not a girl. Scorpius opened his eyes, head swimming, and met her own. They were dark, in this light, and full of such tenderness that Scorpius had never known.

“Oh God, Rosie.” He rasped as she eased her hands from his, letting them fall.

“Oh shit.” Rose moaned, and would have faceplanted the flobberworms if Scorp hadn’t been there to catch her. “We can’t do this.”

If Scorpius hadn’t been majorly invested in ensuring that Rose didn’t fall any further, he might have done something other than widen his eyes. “But why?”

“People will _talk_.” Rose said, sitting up. The nearby cauldron-of-death plopped melodramatically, as if it agreed. “They already think that I am the reason that Naya is sleeping with Frobisher.”

“Let them.”

“Malfoy,” Rose looked resolute, “no.”

“Malfoy, _yes_.”

Rose scowled at him and, very slowly, very carefully, picked up a gruesome looking worm and flicked it. Straight at his head. This conversation – if that’s what it could be called – was over.

 

 

“And then?”

“Oh, she threw flobberworms at me and called me all sorts of names before telling me to go away and leave her to repent for our last training practice in peace.”

Albus tipped his head to one side, looking thoughtful. “Not bad.” He allowed. “That could have gone worse.”

Scorpius’s face always looked like something out of Witch Weekly, with soaring cheekbones and a jawline that might have been chiselled by the Gods but was probably the result of good genetics. His only saving grace, as Albus liked to point out, was his nose which had been broken one too many times to even be considered rugged or manly. It was really a bit of a mess. Now, that face of his just looked openly delighted. “Albus Potter, I am going to _sweep your cousin off of her feet_.”

Albus Potter briefly considered homicide.

 

 

Gryffindor always felt as though they had, over the years, gathered a completely unfair and inaccurate reputation. They were thought to be bull-headed, arrogant, competitive – They had a reputation as being loud, over-dramatic, a little too invested in sports. The jokers, the clowns, the kiss-me-quicks. Usually, the house lived down this reputation with a quiet dignity and grace.

But not on match day.

On match day, unfortunately, they embraced that reputation with heady glee.

 

 

Albus shoved his way to the front of the Gryffindor stands. Hugo’s red hair stood out like a beacon, and the spot that he had saved for Al was an oasis in a sea of foot stomping, heckling teenagers.

“Dear Lord, this place is a madhouse.” Al said as he shunted a stray leg from his spot and sat down next to Hu. “Don’t make that face at me – you have your own spot. Merlin. Calm down, leggy.”  

Hugo’s attention was fixated on the pitch. “What time is it?” He asked, not dragging his eyes from the space in the panelling where the teams would appear.

“Five to two.” Al replied, glancing at his watch. “Handshake should be?”

“Any minute.” Hugo still didn’t glance away. He was an avid quidditch fan, but this level of avid… ness was a little concerning.

“Hugo,” Albus hazarded, pulling his binoculars from his cloak. “You know that it doesn’t matter what happens, right? It’s just a match?”

Hugo turned and smiled at Albus, patting his knee. It was a vaguely patronising smile, Albus thought, but said nothing. “Potter, it stopped being _just_ a match weeks ago.”

 _Oh Merlin,_ Albus thought, resigned, _Please let Gryffindor win._

 

At precisely two o’clock, the golden afternoon sunlight glinted dully off of the quaffle, clutched under Madam Hooch’s arm.

“Captains, shake hands.” The witch called. The tension was palpable as Rose met Howe’s handshake. “To your brooms,” Hooch continued, “And – play!”

The bludgers snapped into the air with the usual sickening whistle, and the snitch disappeared within seconds. Hooch tossed the quaffle straight upwards, and there was a flurry off red and cerulean capes as the players shot for up into the fray. Albus watched from the stands as Scorpius streaked for Gryffindor’s hoops, Ravenclaw in possession of the quaffle. Weasley, Fletcher, and Spinnet were crimson blurs as they whirled around the opposition’s chasers – this was ballet at over one hundred miles an hour, fifty foot in the air.

“And that’s Jorgenson from Ravenclaw with the quaffle! He passed it to Spencer, who tries to leg it down the pitch towards the hoops – intercepted! Spencer has been intercepted! Fletcher takes a tight turn; She’s dropped it! One hell of a bludger from Ravenclaw there, straight between the ball and Fletcher of Gryffindor! Weasley has the quaffle, playing out a Cambridge manoeuvre there – Owens has lost the snitch! That’s a blow for Ravenclaw – Davies in the hoops looking anxious as the Gryffindor beaters line up on them, Merlin – look at them go! Look at them go! Spinnet lining up – look at that forearm rotation, that’s _perfect_ – Yes! Yes! Straight in! Ravenclaw didn’t stand a chance on that one – Ten points to Gryffindor!”

Rose’s heartbeat was a monster in her ears. It was pounding and _pounding –_ She could imagine the blood thrumming through her veins, through her temples. Behind her googles, the scene in front of her was magnified slightly.

“Finnegan!” She yelled, voice turned hoarse by the wind. “Take that left!”

The nearby twin pulled his broom around and hurtled off down the pitch, wooden bat held high.

 _Crack_.

The bludger soared off and clipped the front of Owens’ broom. The Ravenclaw seeker spun in crazy circles, his view of the snitch disrupted again.

The Gryffindor stands _roared_.

Meanwhile, Scorpius was covering the Gryffindor hoops with aplomb.

“Come on, then!” He screamed into the wind as the Ravenclaw chasers came steaming towards him. They hadn’t taken the blow to their seeker well, and they had _murder_ in their eyes. Well educated murder, Scorpius supposed, but still – _murder_. It was exciting. It really was. “Grow some balls!” He hollered, and was about to congratulate himself on his own pun when the smallish one (Green? Grey? Greys? Fifty Shades Of.) took the shot. _Outraged_ , Scorp swung around and smacked the ball away with the tail of his broom.

“That’s rude!” He cried. Fifty Shades stuck his middle finger up at him. “That’s even _ruder, Merlin!”_

“Hanks of Ravenclaw takes a swing at that bludger and sends int straight at – Weasley! Gryffindor’s captain avoids that one by a whisker, holy _shit_.”

“Language!”

“Sorry, Proffesor. By a whisker, holy sugarcake! The two seekers are going hell for leather around the edge of the pitch – Franks of Gryffindor (a new addition to the team just this year, wasn’t it? And a very nice player he is,) apparently in the lead, if that jostle was anything to go by… Merlin’s Beard, what a bludger! What a hit! Hanks again!”

Scorp was going to be having words with his mate about all of this smacking bludgers at innocent lil Gryffindors. Seriously.

Half-time was called at 50:30, with Gryffindor in the lead and several close shaves under their belt. Gathering under the shadow of the stands, Rose pulled off her flight googles. “You guys good?” She asked, and nodded in response to the various pumped up “Yeah’s!” and “Bloody _fabulous._ Did you not _see me_.” (“Merlin’s beard, Finnegan.”) (“Come on, Cap!”) (“Yeah, yeah, you’re doing great.”)

“Alright, let’s talk Holyhead.”

 

 

Up in the stands, the spectators were _besides_ themselves. No-one was too certain who was organising the main gambling ring, but several first year lackies had been sent skittering through the older students.

“Any revished betsh, gentsh?” A tiny, floppy haired eleven year old lisped at Hu and Albus. Hugo instantly started digging in his pockets, rolling out who he was and wasn’t putting money on, and who would be catching the snitch, and whether it would be on points from the quaffle or on the snitch. Albus just watched with a faint sense of bemusement.

“Your Mum flew for the Harpies, Potter.” Hugo said as he sent the small lad scampering off. “How can you care so _little_ about this game?! It’s honestly a bit disappointing.”

“Your Mum basically _runs_ the Ministry, mate. How do you feel about a long discussion on linancy for goblin laws?”

Hugo grimaced. “Fair. Very fair. Your parents here today?”

“Nah, Dad’s been sent to Bulgaria and Mum went out with him. Yours?”

“Duh. Dad never misses Rose’s games. Think the Malfoys are here?”

Albus picked up his binoculars and cast them over the stand reserved for parents. With the game being the final of the House Cup, there was standing room only – but Draco Malfoy’s startling pale hair shone starkly. “Right there – I wonder if Scorp knows?”

Hugo only shrugged, attention back on the pitch. “Shut up, they’re back!”

 

 

The Gryffindor team streamed onto the pitch, red cloaks snapping in the breeze behind them. Ravenclaw met them in the middle, and the captains exchanged a nod.

“Mount!” Hooch barked at the fourteen players. “And – play!” And once more, the quaffle was shot into the sky.

The Holyhead formation is a winning tactic that is very rarely played because of the sheer level of dumb luck that a team needs to pull it off. And as the players formed a loose formation in the sky, there wasn’t a smile in sight. Watching from the stands, Hugo Weasley gaped. “Oh Christ, Rose.”

In the commentator’s stand, Ieuan Price watched the Gryffindor team curiously. “Looks like Gryffindor have got something up their sleeves,” he hazarded, but at this point it was impossible to tell just what. And then all hell broke loose.

The two Finnegan beaters streamed down opposite edges of the pitch, smacking bludgers between the pair of them with the kind of high-powered accuracy that grew and grew as the power compounded. Watching aghast, spectators could almost hear the wood of the bats _shuddering_ after each lightning fast hit. In between each shot, the chasers flew between the streaking bludgers. They had possession of the quaffle, and with the bludgers covering each and every one of their movements – Ravenclaw couldn’t get close.  Scorpius was a flash of scarlet by the Gryffindor hoops, and on the few occasions when one of the chasers muffed the ball and the chasers in blue got hold of it, he smacked it back to the Gryffindor players with a violent kind of grace.

“That’s a _Holyhead formation!”_ Price hollered into the microphone. “Oh my _God,_ Gryffindor are playing the _Holyhead formation!”_

Hanks went in to intercept a bludger, bravely holding out his bat, only to have it yanked from his hand. The lad bellowed in pain, the sound of his wrist bones cracking sending a sickening grey cast over his face.

“That’s another ten to Gryffindor!” Price was commentating, his Welsh accent getting ever more pronounced as the tension around the pitch doubled, tripled. Despairing cries and disbelieving, joyful screams split the air from all sides.

“Shit, _shit,_ Franks has the snitch! He has the snitch! Gryffindor takes the House Cup!”

Braced on her broom by the Ravenclaw posts, Rose covered her face, and cried.


	9. let's dance to joy division

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there are parental cameos (again) and hanks is pretty cool. scoprius learns some uncomfortable truths, rose is a lil bit evil, hugo's day is fucking mADE and albus has that monday-morning feeling but, like, late at night.

 

_“Go, go Gryffindor! Go, go Gryffindor! Go, go Gryffindor! Go, go-”_

The student to the right of Albus was crying. Every other student appeared to be screaming. Albus was staring at the pitch, an expression of comical bemusement on his face. Hugo was crying _and_ screaming _and_ cursing his sister. Every single Gryffindor student was on their feet, and that _chant._ It was torn from their chests, it was a manic cheer, it was a miracle. Albus looked out over the pitch and noted Scorpius doing nothing but idle by the posts that he had guarded so ferociously. As he watched, the two teams seemed to recover from the sudden end to the game, gathered their wits, and flew for the ground.

_“Go, go Gryffindor! Go, go Gryffindor!”_

The parent to the right of Ronald Weasley was crying. If the redhead hadn’t been so caught up in cheering for his _bloody brilliant – did you fucking see that, ‘Mione?! We parented that! –_ daughter, he might have patted them on the back. Not sure whose parent it was. Maybe it wasn’t? Maybe it was just someone who had heard that his _bloody fantastic daughter_ was going to play a _bloody Holyhead formation_ and had decided to pop along.

“Ronald!”

“Go on, you legends! Go on- Yes, love?”

“Be nice.”

“Why? Wha- Oh. Alright, Malfoy?”

Draco Malfoy wore a black coat, collar pulled up high, but it did little to disguise the red and yellow colours of a Gryffindor scarf that peeped through from underneath. It endeared Ron towards him, just slightly. Not even that much. A smidgeon.

“Quite the match, wouldn’t you say?”

“I bloody would. A _Holyhead formation._ That _teamwork._ They must have been at that for months – did you know anything?” Ron wasn’t sure why he asked. He didn’t care what Malfoy knew and didn’t know. He put it down to the quidditch, to the adrenaline pumping through his system. “How’s, um, Scorpius doing? Flew well today. Flew pretty buggeringly brilliant, fairplay.” Ron could feel Hermione’s surprise, emanating from where she had warningly linked their arms. He could be nice! He could be! And everyone always acted surprised! Rose would have wanted him to be _nice_ to her mate’s dad and Rose had just _won the House Cup_ so Ron would be _nice._

Malfoy cleared his throat, clearly as nonplussed as ‘Mione. “He’s recovering – you know, he managed to rupture his spleen twice in twenty-four hours. Quite the feat.”

Ron whistled, impressed. “Rose said something about reattaching spinal cords? Good lad, Malfoy. He’s a good lad.”

Draco Malfoy did not _do_ emotion. But when it came to his son, he definitely did something similar. “Lovely to see you both,” he nodded to the pair of them, offering a slight, warm smile (Ron didn’t realise that his face had settings other than “smirk” or “pompous git,”) “Rose is an accomplished player. She’s a credit to you both.”

Ron gaped; Hermione tightened her grip. “Astoria will want to see Scorpius. I must be getting on. All the best,” and Malfoy turned and made his way back through the stands.

“Egh.” Ron managed.

“I know.” Hermione replied, “I know.”

“A _Gryffindor_ scarf.”

“I know.”

“I was _nice_.”

“I know?!”

“Egh.”

“Shall we go and see our daughter?”

“A bloody _Holyhead formation, Hermione!”_

“I know.” And the bushy haired Minister for Magic led her husband out of the stands.

 

On the pitch, Scorpius gracefully climbed from his broom, letting his cape fall in luscious waves around his shoulders. Apart from that fact that his hands were shaking so much that, on the pitch, Scorpius staggered off of his broom and his cape was just in the way, _Merlin’s beard._ The damned things could only have been for the aesthetic value, Scorp grumbled internally as he flicked the thing out of his face; There was really no practical value.

“Malfoy!”

“Hanksy!”

“You bastard!”

“Same to you, belting that bludger at our innocent little seeker! Oh hell, have you got that looked at?”

Hanks glanced down at the broken wrist that he was cradling against his chest. “Yeah, mate. Most of the team have looked at it and made this” Hanks pulled a disgusted expression, “sort of face.”

Scorpius nodded, because that was definitely the kind of expression that the proffered limb deserved. “We’re still mates, right?”

Rolling his eyes, Hanks reached out with his healthy arm and ruffled the other lad’s hair with a giant paw. Scorpius felt it in his bones. His hair possibly had powers that he could never possess, now. “You twat. How much do I owe you, then? Fifty galleons but without a piece of _that_ , wasn’t it?”

Scorp blinked, the bet suddenly coming back to him. “Aw shit, Hanks. Nah, it was a cracking game. Call it quits.”

Hanks slowly evaluated the blond, respect in his eyes. At 6’3, Scorp towered over the stockier lad, but his boyish smile made him seem smaller for a moment. “Buy you a drink?”

“I’ll take three!”

“Twat.”

Laughing, Scorpius waved Hanks away and turned to jog in the direction of the where the Gryffindor team was slowly accumulating. Spectators were streaming out of the stands and onto the pitch, and Scorp gingerly made his way through them, hands slapping him on the back as he went. Sean Finnegan had his arm around Fletcher, and their new widdle seeker was being thoroughly congratulated by the boisterous team. Rose still in the air, hovering by the stands where Scorpius could see Hugo animatedly gesturing, clearly giving Rose the play-by-play of the match that she’d just, y’know, captained. Scorp snorted. There was a yell, and Scorp spotted Al shooting him a thumbs up from where he was stuck in between a couple of younger Gryffindors. Returning the gesture with a grin, Scorp figured that his family had just witnessed the best match of his life. Well. To a point. He’d have to send his old man the photos, and Mum would probably just be thrilled that he wasn’t back in the hospital wing.

“Yes, Franks!” Scorp exclaimed, clapping the young lad on the back on joining the fray. “That catch!”

Ecstatic, the dark haired boy turned and beamed up at _Scorpius Malfoy._ “Thanks! Did you see that throw from the ginger Ravenclaw just before ten-ten?”

“Did indeed. Cracking job you did of getting in the way. You should definitely carry on tripping people up throughout life, Franks. You’ll be everyone’s favourite person.”

Franks nodded seriously, taking the advice on board. “Cheers, Malfoy.”

“Pleasure. Ah, Weasley’s touched down! I’ll be a moment.”

 

It was just Scorpius’s luck, he supposed, that the second he wanted to go and find his girl (If that was even the case? He was working on it.) that Fifty Shades stomped over and tried to have a go. Scorpius was glancing around past his shoulder, having lost that tell-tale red hair in the crush of students again. It was only when the Ravenclaw chaser jabbed him in the chest that he looked down.

“Aw, sod off, Raven-Brain. It was a game!”

Incensed, the Ravenclaw carried on with the chest-stabby-ness. “Our crest is an eagle and not a raven, damn it!”

“It is?”

“Yes!”

“Oh. Merlin, I’ve been here eight years and never knew that. Hey, why isn’t it Eagleclaw, then? You know, never mind. Great talking to you, but I need to find the Cap. In a while, Crocodile.”

 

The cap was deep in conversation with a striking dark-haired woman when Scorp spotted her by the stands. There was something about the back of the woman’s head, the way she was holding herself, that was instantly familiar. “Mum!”

Rose watched the woman in front of her whirl away at the sound of Scorpius’s voice. He was wide eyed, clearly amazed as he was wrapped into a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” Astoria Malfoy said, “there was a quidditch match on, peanut. And you know how your father gets.”

 _Peanut?_ Rose mouthed at Scorpius, who was grinning at her over his mother’s shoulder.

 _Fuck off,_ he mouthed back, before his mother’s words settled in. “Wait - Dad’s here as well?”

Scorpius felt rather than saw his father step out behind him. “He is indeed. Good afternoon, Miss Weasley.”

“Mr Malfoy,” Rose nodded at him pleasantly, leaning on her broom. “It was lovely to see you both, but I should probably go and find my parents.”

“They were by the commentator’s box just a moment ago.” Draco said, and Scorpius had been growing used to his father being kind-of-okay with his friendship with Rose, but when he said “I’ve just had a chat about the two of you with Weasley, actually. Marvellous flying from the pair of you.” Scorpius was _stunned_. He barely registered Rose passing on her thanks and escaping.

“You _talked to Mr Weasley?”_ Scorpius exclaimed, glee evident, rounding on his father. “What are you even _doing here?_ I thought you were staying in Dublin?”

“Our son was playing in the House Cup. It was important.” Draco countered dryly. “Oh, your mother and I brought you these-”

“You didn’t owl! You didn’t _say anything_ and is that – Is that a Gryffindor scarf? Are those Bertie _Botts?_ I think I need a dark room and to rock backwards and forwards a bit. This is all too much.”

“Scorpius.”

“Sorry, sorry. But _aw, you guys._ ”

 

That night, after escaping parental pettings, the Gryffindor common room was a mess of cheering students, stolen food and loud, raucous singing. “You know, you’re welcome to join.” Scorpius had said to Hanks earlier after the lad’s wrist had been seen to. “We throw a cracking party, you know.”

“I know,” Hanks replied, easy temperament forever unshaken. “And sure, Gryffindors probably have more fun. But Ravenclaws remember it the next day.”

“Eagle-daws.”

“Come again?”

“It’s an eagle, mate. Not a raven.”

“Never?”

Scorpius squinted at the stocky lad, but Hanks’ face remained impassive other than a slow, genial smile. “I really cannot tell when you’re being sarcastic.”

“Good.” Hanks had said before leaving, and Scorpius was left to over-analyse everything that had just been said. That had ever been said. That  _might_ ever be said.

“Bastard,” he muttered. “That’s psychological warfare.”

 

Gryffindor always threw a good party; The impromptu kitchen raids always did them well, and they were Gryffindors so the punch was potent (but Fletcher had seen to it that there was an alternative, shooting underage students glares) and none of them could sing but somebody started belting out Dragons in Drag’s latest single and the whole tower reverberated with it. Ronan Finnegan led a conga line around the small space, and every cat in the room leapt for the tops of the bookshelves. Nine o’clock, and the dancing was getting better. Ten o’clock and it was getting worse. Eleven and onwards, and people were starting to head to bed or were collapsing in corners whilst the staunch survivors danced on. Throughout the night, Rose and Scorp had come together just often enough that people had half an eye on them.

“You reckon they’re..?” Sean Finnegan had asked Fletcher, his arm comfortably around her waist.

Amy had looked at them, and remembered the finger that Rose had pressed against her lips. Ovaries, then, before bro-varies. “Nah,” she said airily. “Don’t think Rose is interested.”

Finnegan had “hmm’d” speculatively. Rose was, at that moment, twirling herself out on Scorp’s hand before he reeled her back in, the music having turned swinging and fast. “I reckon he’s after her.”

It wasn’t a conversation that Amy was inclined to continue, so she reached up and pressed a kiss against the corner of Sean’s mouth. “Want to dance?”

 

Scorpius was upside down over the back of the sofa. His back was objecting and the blood might have all been rushing to his head, but hey, that must have been fate, right? He was feeling pretty zen about the whole thing, to be honest. He also couldn’t really remember how he’d ended up there, and moving seemed like a big ask. “Weasley!” He cried (or slurred) from his new angle. Down here, he just saw ankles. That was it. Loads of ankles, and _ooh, somebody had an ankle tattoo,_ but he couldn’t spot her hair. It was always her hair. That lovely, lovely-

“Malfoy!”

Tilting his head and squinting upwards, Scorpius spied the _wrong_ Weasley. “Hu! My main man! Where’s Weasley?”

“Did you really play a _Holyhead Formation_?” Hugo wanted to talk about it with somebody. Or to somebody. He was just _so happy_ to have seen a match like that.

“Maybe?” Scorpius chanced. Even from down here, he saw Hugo’s face fall. Wrong answer, then. “No.” He tried, because there was a fifty percent chance that that was the right answer. Apparently, that left a fifty percent chance of failure which was a bummer. “Yes, then. Where’s Weasley? I want Rosie.”

“My Rose?”

“No, _my Rose.”_

“Here.” Rose slumped down next to Scorpius, and then lay down so that her head rested next to his. “What are we talking, gentlemen?”

“The _Holyhead Formation!”_ and Hugo was off. There was no stopping him. Rose nodded along whilst Scorpius nodded off.

“Hey, Scorp,” Rose whispered to him, her mouth by his ear anyway. “What’s with the sofa?”

“Gravity continues to ruin my life.” Scorp whispered back seriously. “I was destined to be a figure skater, you know. Or that guy who could fly – what was his name?”

“Icarus?”

“Richard Branson! But now my dreams are in tatters.”

Rose smiled to herself, and was about to say something when she was interrupted by a hand on her shoulder. She glanced up, startled, and saw her brother's inebriated face blinking down at her.

“Rose, I’m going to have to stop you there. I love talking squidditch but you’ve done me in. I’ll see you in the morning.” And Hugo sleepily ambled away whilst Rose watched on, bemused.

“I think we just gave him his birthday present and Christmas present rolled into one.”

“So nice of us,” Scorpius replied, reaching a hand backwards to trail it through Rose’s hair. It had spread out on the floor around them both, and he loved it. He wasn’t sure if it was the strands of fire or his embarrassingly poor alcohol tolerance which loosened his tongue enough to ask, “Rosie, you know that fancy ball? Would you come with me if I asked?”

Firewhiskey had taken the edge off of Rose’s senses, but she was still astute enough to ask “Are you?”

Scorpius didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yes. Rosie, will you come to the fancy ball with me, please?”

“People will be watching.”

“I don’t care about people. I care about you.”

“Oh.” Rose stilled, her mind suddenly blank. And then she linked their little fingers together, Scorp’s hazy, unfocused eyes finding hers. “Okay, okay. Yes, then. Let’s.”

And they might have fallen asleep like that – Scorpius’s long legs hanging off the other side of the sofa, one shoe having disappeared; Rose collapsed by his head, and their hands linked together by the littlest fingers as innocently as children – had Albus not come flying down the stairs from the boy’s dormitory, and gone “Someone’s stolen it!”

 

The boys’ dormitory was a mess.

Whilst Scorpius’s side of the room was relatively untouched, Albus’s half was in tatters. His sheets had been stripped, the pillows torn apart. Shattered glass covered the floor, and Scorp and Rose took it in, aghast, whilst Al heedlessly strode over to the windowsill. “Every single piece of research.” Albus said bitterly. “They have taken everything. My plants – my research… I was taking it to see Shackleford _next week_ and now I have _nothing_ to show him. What a waste. What a goddamn waste.”

“Why?” Scorp managed, mind reeling. He was rapidly sobering up, the severity of the situation hitting him in the face. “Fucking hell, Albus – why?”

Albus said nothing; He just shrugged helplessly. “They’re just a couple of plants. There is a fucking gold distillery in this room – And they took the one bloody thing that is worth next to nothing.” Albus barked out a harsh laugh, and Scorp watched him carefully. Albus had been drinking, he knew, but Scorpius didn’t like the way that it had turned his friend - who was usually so stupidly caring - into this hostile version of himself.

“Al, you’ve bred a plant that could change medicine for good. Do you realise the price tag somebody could put on that?” Rose rationalised, her voice level.

There was silence. Albus and Scorpius exchanged a glance.

“Fuck.” Albus whispered.

“Fuck.” Scorp echoed, horrified. “We _need_ to get that back. Look, I’ll go and find somebody to wake McGonagall; We’ll get them to do sweeps of the room, whoever did it _must_ have left something behind.”   
  
“No.” Albus articulated, slowly and carefully. “Scoprius, no. I will not let you do this for me.”

Scorp said nothing, instead arched one brow challengingly.

“You need to listen to me,” Al said vehemently. “That research – those plants – they do not exist anymore. Are you hearing me? As far as anybody is concerned, it’s gone. It never was.”

“But it was, Albus.” Scorp said quietly. “You can’t just throw it away. It was brilliant.”

“Watch me.” Albus replied, and Scorpius watched as his best friend walked out of the door. He didn’t try and stop him; He recognised the look in Albus’s eyes. There was a breaking point, and Albus usually walked a path so far away from it. But now? Now he walked the line as though it were a tightrope. The door slammed behind him, and Scorpius flinched.

“Albus!” Rose exclaimed, rushing to the doorway. “Al!”

“Let him go,” Scorp said quietly. “Rosie, we have to let him go.”

“We can’t let him just _give up._ ” Rose whirled around, eyes aflame.

“And we are not.” Scorpius said. “Get your arse over here, Weasley. We need a plan.”

 

“That’s an insane idea.”

“Do you not feel like it has to be? Because I feel like it has to be.”

“No one has to cross-dress. And violence is not the answer, Scorp.”

“But it is _an_ answer. What’s _your_ idea then?”

And Rose Weasley, who had managed mischief since she started captaining the Gryffindor quidditch team, said “ _Well,_ ” and the idea that followed proceeded to shave a good three years off of Scorpius’s life.

 

“That’s surprisingly evil, Rosie. I’m almost annoyed.”

Rose glanced up from the pieces of parchment that she’d gathered, and grinned wickedly. “Needs must, right?”

“Apparently. But, okay, what if the plants have already been sent off? This will only work if they’re still in the castle.”

Unfazed, Rose’s loopy handwriting was hurriedly spider-webbing it’s way across the pages. “That’s easy enough to establish,” she said, half-listening. “We can just check the logs in the Owlery.”

Scorp leant back on his bed, and glanced at Albus’s. The chaos was disheartening; The mattress torn, the candelabra snapped in two. Scorp felt a pang for Albus's usual cleanliness – he missed the usual piles of pipettes and books and a shaggy black head smushed against the pillow in some brilliantly ugly angles. Really, the photos he _had_ would keep him in blackmail material for _years_.

“We’ll sort this out.” Rose said, watching Scorpius’s face fall. “It’s what we do.”

“What if we can’t, this time?”

“Don’t be thick, Malfoy. We just won the bloody House Cup with you out of hospital less than a week before. This is child’s play. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. And whilst you’re at it, convince Al to do the same.”

Looking over, Scorp was struck by the determination in Rose. It was in the set of her jaw, the ferocity in her eyes. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he said, easing himself off of the bed to sit next to her on the floor. She looked up at him in askance, and it took everything in Scorp not to close the distance between them. Instead, he looked at the hastily drawn plans. “Where do we start?”

“The Owlery.” Rose replied, swapping her attention. “You’re right – we need to find out if the plants are still in school.”


	10. sparks fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which;
> 
> scorpius gets very told off by albus  
> the fat lady is just 100% done with literally everybody  
> naya's new squeeze makes a cameo (and a bit of a mess)   
> the princess bride is like, my whole entire jam

Getting out of the Gryffidnor tower was the easy bit.

Scorpius had started sneaking when he was twelve, and he'd got rather good at it. It was all a matter of working out the creakiest floorboards and skirting past that plant on the coffee table. It shrieked if you got too close. Scorpius turned around to warn Rose, waving his arms above his head in a vaguely plant-ish fashion, and saw that the redhead had already moved out of range. He watched, distracted for a moment, as she effortlessly ducked under the low hanging bell attached to the bookcase (F.W and G.W were carved into the wood just above – there was no question about removing the bell, but plenty of questions about _just why_ it was there) and she managed the hop/skip/jump over the squeakiest floorboards without a thought.

“Just how many times have you gone out at night?” Scorp hissed, catching up with her by the portrait. Rose raised a questioning eyebrow as she pulled her wand out. “Aren’t you the ‘sleep of the dead’ kind?”

“Even the dead get snacky.” Rose replied, looked a little affronted. “Shall we?”

Navigating the school at night was one of Scorpius’s greatest pleasures. He loved the way that the halls, usually so rambunctious, fell silent. He had yet to work out if ghosts slept; Probing had often resulted in “Surely death is a sleep long enough” and “I live to sleep, Mr Malfoy,” followed by loud guffawing – But they certainly weren’t around in the lesser hours of the morning.  It was nearing half past three by the time that Scorpius and Rose slipped out of the common room. The Fat Lady opened one eye in order to shoot them a filthy look, but otherwise passed no comment. The pair clung to the shadows. Overhead, bats flitted around as they rounded up the day’s insects for an alfresco supper.

“So, the plan.” Rose whispered. The two of them had skirted down the walls of the castle before peeling off under the tapestry of Edward Eyre's floating citadel. From there, they’d taken three flights of stairs and ducked behind a set of dragon’s armour. A hoard of elves had skittered past, arms filled with laundry. “The first owls of the day are cleared for flight at, what? Five a.m?”

“I think it’s four.” Scorp breathed back. They were shoulder to shoulder, and Rose was clearly enjoying herself. Every time she got to duck under a window or jerk to a halt in front of him, Scorp saw the naked glee zip across her face. This was either going to go _so, so well –_ or they were getting arrested. There were no alternatives. “The news comes in off of the press then. Mum’s deadlines usually come in half-an-hour beforehand.”

Rose looked interested. “I never knew that.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to come see her office sometime. It’s like Sherlock’s lair.”

Rose gasped. “You muggled!”

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did! I’m so proud of you.”

“Fuck off.”

“ _So rude._ You get to be on watch because of that.”

“What am I watching for?” Scorpius asked as they reached the heavy wooden door to the owlery.

“ _Trouble_.” Rose said, waving her hand in a vague _I don’t know why are you asking me it should be obvious_ fashion. She shoved on the door experimentally, but it didn't budge. Pressing the tip of her wand to the lock, she cast  _alohomora_ and let the pair of them in. There was a final flight of stairs in front of the pair - it circled around the tower before revealing the owlery, all wide open windows to make for easy flight paths. It also meant that the air at the bottom of the stairs was frigid, and Rose's breath came and went with small clouds of water vapour.

“Rosie, _we_ are the trouble.” Scorp pointed out.

“And you’re so accomplished at your job, Scorp. You’ve already found some. Well done.” Rose said indulgently. “Now, go lean on the door and look pretty. The first owls start going out in ten minutes, so we might have a wait.”

“And what are you doing?” Scorp was suspicious.

“I’m checking the logs for outgoing birds. And plants.” Rose answered, apparently without a care in the world, as she turned and started to climb the stairs. She disappeared from view, leaving Scorpius to look pretty and stand watch. Tension immediately started twisting his gut, spiking his pulse and turning the wry half-grin onto his lips into a grim shadow of itself. Rationally, he knew that there was nothing to worry about. _It’s fine,_ he told himself, hand clenching and unclenching around his wand. _She’s fine._

And then there was a scream, a flash of light, and smoke filled the stairwell behind him.

 

Rose’s logic had gone something like this:

One – There was no sensible reason for anyone to be anywhere _near_ the owlery at ten to four in the morning.

Two – The only reason for someone to be in the owlery at ten to four in the morning was to send Albus’s plants far, far away at four a.m on the dot.

Three – And if _that_ was the case, she was going to kick _ass._

Four – Scorp was _right there_ if she needed back-up.

So, in fairness, her logic was sound.

(Option two came about rather quickly.)

Rose had climbed the final stair with her wand held defensively in front of her. Her eyes had long since adjusted to the half-light that the moon was throwing through the gaping windows - and the figure bent over the owlery’s ledger made no effort to conceal themselves. A slim, dark haired man stood with his back to her. His wand glowed starkly as  _lumos_ lit the pages in front of him. Rose took in the way his fingers were hurriedly skimming over the pages, the dark cape that he wore flapping in the breeze. And there – at his feet – was a hessian sack.

Rose didn’t think. “ _Levicorpus!”_ she cried, snapping her wrist. Her shout was loud in the silent room, and the man jumped before whirling around. 

The jinx never hit. Instead, it hit the air in front of him and appeared to _shatter_. Red, opaque shards flew chaotically and flames sparked where they hit.

“ _Ventus!”_ The man – _boy –_ screamed, as Rose recovered and yelled “ _Levicorpus!”_ again. Because of _course_ it was Naya’s new “friend.” _Frobisher. Nicholas Frobisher._

His jinx caused something akin to a wind tunnel in the room, and Rose’s eyes watered as she dug her feet in and stood her ground. She was _furious. How dare he._ Her wand was a blur as she cracked spell after spell across the Ravenclaw’s back. _That's for what the two of you did to Scorpius,_ she thought bitterly, and tugged him into the air again. Rose advanced into the unrelenting wind, eyes sleep deprived and vicious. _That's for ruining Albus's work._ She snapped her wand again, a horrendous cracking sound reverberating around the room as she sent jets of white light to pull at his arms. Warding her off, the Ravenclaw’s spell casting was getting sloppy and messy. Frobisher sent birds which Rose turned into arrows of hard, dangerous light and shot back at him. He got lucky – Rose’s _levicorpus_ wore off at just the right moment. The lanky Ravenclaw dropped to the ground, and the arrows hit the wall and dissipated in crackling embers. _That is for coming anywhere near my family._ Shards of jade, that sent him hurtling backwards, left him reeling at the window edge, only to jerk him back at the last moment.  _And that is to make sure that you never try again._ The sparks that fell were caught in the wind, which fanned them into a blaze. They silently caught the stacks of parchment and loose straw in the room, and suddenly crackling heat started to fill the room. Rose’s hair whipped around her, and that was how Scorpius found them when he burst in. Flames and fire, and an avenging goddess.

And, if he were very honest, it was kind of a turn-on.

 

“Rose!” he screamed above the wind. The owls had fled their perches in a cacophonous chorus of screeching. “Rosie, enough!”

Either Rose couldn’t hear or was so lost to him that it fell on deaf ears. The flames were dancing now; They licked their way up the walls and caressed the stones, leaving sooty stains in their wake. “Weasley!” Scorp tried again, before lurching forwards and grabbing her wrist. She turned to him with wide, wild eyes. “Enough, Rose. Enough.”

Rose’s wand stilled. The sudden quiet was eery, and Rose's chest heaved from the effort. She, Scorpius realised, had been sustaining the wind, and now without that fury fuelling her... Holding Rose's gaze steady, Scorp called “Don’t move,” to the Ravenclaw, who stood with his wand braced protectively, a snarl on his lips.

“Lunatics.” Frobisher spat, and Rose watched Scorpius’s eyebrows raise.

“That’s not nice.” He said, turning. He kept a hold on Rose – hand going from her wrist to the small of her back. “That’s not nice at all.”

“She almost killed me,” Frobisher sounded venomous.

“’Almost’ being the key word.” Scorpius said, and though the words were light, his voice was hard. His father’s voice was in the back of his mind, that “ _Carefully does it,”_ that had been the calmer side to his mother’s wildfire spontaneity. He felt Rose bristle under his hand and knew that she would be as happy to go after the Ravenclaw with bare fists.  

“For the time being,” Rose snapped. “What’s in the bag, Frobisher?”

“You can't touch it. It’s private property.”

Rose flicked her wand. The rope around the bag began to elegantly untie itself, and Frobisher watched with a scowl as small, green leaves became visible.

“Private property.” Rose repeated sourly, stepping forwards and scooping it up. She glared at the Ravenclaw with raw, unbridled defiance. “Damned straight it is. This belongs to my family, you cheating shit.”

“Aww, what are you going to do about it?” Frobisher goaded, tone patronising. He sounded braver now that Rose had slipped her wand into her back pocket, arms around the sack. “Run to Mummy? Is that what you’re going to do? Tell the Minister of Magic that I was naughty? Or to Daddy? Hey, Weasley, why don’t you-”

There was a dangerous twitching in Rose’s jaw, and Scorpius reached for her in the second before her right arm _swung_. Frobisher didn’t get anything in beyond a spasm of his wand before he dropped like a stone. 

“Ow, ow, _fuck_.” Rose cursed, clutching her knuckles and hopping around. “Oh Merlin, _ow._ ”

Scorpius’s jaw had fallen open. “Did you _knock him out_?”

“I don’t _know_.” Rose said, still waving her hand. “I think I’ve broken this, actually.”

“You _knocked him out, oh my God.”_

“Malfoy!”

“He must weigh twice as much as you!”

“You are the _worst_ partner in crime.”

“Okay, right now, you’re the criminal. That was assault.” Scorp pointed out reasonably. He looked around the room, taking in the flames that had quickly eaten away at the woodwork and the perches devoid of owls. It had, he realised belatedly, got a little warm in here.

“Woops.” He said.

 

By the time they had extinguished the worst of the flames, Rose was yawning. This had been the _longest_ day of her life, and they had made such a lot of mess. When the night starts with being astonishingly drunk and ends with memory extraction, it just has to be a Monday.

Memory extraction is a tricky business, one that only the most experienced wizards should really undertake. But when a groggy and disorientated Frobisher had come to – trussed up inelegantly in a chair, suspended from the ceiling – it had all seemed like the only sensible option. Especially as Rose appeared to have dealt him a concussion that had robbed him of most of the events, anyway. A well placed “ _Obliviate”_ and the duo called it a day. The Ravenclaw was deposited inside of his dormitory alongside a mostly empty bottle of firewhiskey, filched from the disarray of the Gryffindor party, for dramatic affect.

( _"I go in hard, I come out soft. You blow me hard. What am I?" "Oh, easy, dicks." "Merlin's beard, Weasley." "Is that not the answer?" "Chewing gum, Rose." "Oh my God."_ )

 

 

The walk back to the Gryffindor dormitory was more of a stagger. The pair leant against each other as they stood in front of the Fat Lady.

“Please.” Scorpius said, voice hoarse.

For once, the Fat Lady did not argue. She simply swung open, wide eyed and excited. Oh, the _gossip_. Scorpius _Malfoy_ and Rose _Weasley_ were out _all night_ together! It didn’t matter one jot that they had come back looking like a culinary student’s disaster – she had barely noticed, to tell the truth.

“That,” Scorpius said, as the pair parted ways. “was one of the best nights of my life.”

“Weirdly, I agree.” Rose replied, smiling tiredly. Scorpius didn’t even think about it; He laced their fingers together and squeezed. She looked up at him, smile widening. But when she went up on her tiptoes and pressed the softest of kisses to Scorpius’s lips, he was amazed. It took a moment for his brain to catch up and to press his hand to the small of her back. She moved against him, a hand going up and tangling in his hair. Scorpius tasted her laugh and she pulled back. “Wow,” he said when she showed him the scorched hair that had come away in her hand. “I’m finally going to look tough.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Rose replied, kindly handing him his hair. “Night, Scorp.”

“Sleep well, Rosie.” Scorpius said around a grin. “Hey, Rosie, wait!”

She turned on the stairs. “Still good for the ball?”

“Will you look tough?”

“Depends if Al beats me up.”

“Oh,  _in that case_. I'd like a white flower, please. Not pink." Rose's eyes were the warmest Scorpius had ever seen them. The tradition of giving a flower had started after the war when the World's Ball was developed - a gesture of peace, of goodwill. "Night, Scorp."

"Night, sweetheart." Scorp was smiling when he fell onto his bed, fully clothed. He wasn't smiling when an unsmiling house-elf shook him awake not one hour later, and told him the Headmistress was waiting.

 

 

“So, here’s what happened.” Rose Weasley leant across the desk in a confidential manner. Her hair was a dishevelled mess, her sweatshirt hung untidily off of one shoulder, and she had soot marks across one high cheekbone. Minerva McGonagall regretted not taking an early retirement. “It was entirely my fault – I do agree with that - but really it was all a misunderstanding.”

  
“That never happened.” Scorpius Malfoy said, looking almost offended. “We would never do that!” His hair was dramatically shorter on one side than the other, his shirt sleeves were blackened around the edges, and he’d _just_ gingerly plucked a piece of glass from his forehead whilst Minevra McGonagall watched with a stony face. “It was nothing to do with us. Just a really unfortunate series of events.”

  
“I wasn’t a part of it.” Albus Potter said tiredly. He was excused.

  
“And what kind of a misunderstanding could result in half of the Owlery being set alight?” the headmistress asked in that low, controlled voice that usually sent students scurrying. “Miss Weasley, I’m sure you’re aware that this could be seen as an act of sabotage.”

Rose looked outraged, “It was nothing of the sort! It was good old fashioned revenge!”

  
“And which events lead to the Owlery going up in flames?” Professor McGonagall peered over the edge of her glasses. Malfoy was leaning back in his chair, the picture of ease, and if the Scotswoman hadn’t already spoken to his accomplice, she’d have felt compelled to let him go.

“Unfortunate ones.” Scorpius reiterated, flashing her a _what can you do about it_ smile. “Very unfortunate ones.”

  
“The damages alone are worth your summer term’s fees, Miss Weasley.” McGonagall said, conveniently forgetting, for a moment, that with a little careful spellwork the entire thing could be put right in minutes. She was rewarded by a grey pallor taking over the girl’s face and a shudder rippling through her body. Money, apparently, was still a delicate point amongst Weasleys. “So why don’t you stop wasting my time and tell me why you are sitting in my office and still smouldering slightly?”

Rose battled her conscience for a moment. “Okay, okay. It started when Albus grew these plants on his windowsill.”  


“Do you have no understanding of just how much the damages will cost the school?” McGonagall probed. Scorpius Malfoy was _lounging_ in her chair, although she suspected much of it to be an act. “’Non-flammable’ is not a challenge, Mr Malfoy.”

“Is it not?” Scorpius replied, apparently surprised. “You know, Professor, I have learnt a lot today. About flammability, remorse, apologising from the bottom of my heart…”

The Scotswoman was unmoved. Detentions were given. Scorpius Malfoy left her office with shreds of his dignity and it was only as he disappeared through her door that McGonagall realised that his trousers were merely charred tatters from below the knee. Bright red and yellow polka-dot socks seemed to mock her as the lad strode cheerfully away.

 

“Well,” The formidable headmistress pursed her lips as she evaluated the teenager in front of her. Rose wore an expression of abject remorse, and if it hadn’t been for the twinkle in her eyes McGonagall would have been prepared to believe just how deeply sorry the girl was. “Would you do it again?”

“Absolutely.” Rose said, without hesitation. She winced, and corrected herself, “but not the burning the Owlery bit. I am so very sorry for that.”

“Humph.” The headmistress humphed. “Detention, Miss Weasley. And I will be talking to your parents.”

“Oh, smashing! Could you tell them that Albus’s plants are safe?”

McGonagall wished again that she had a bottle of something stashed in her desk.

 

Albus Potter was waiting.

Scorpius came down the stairs from McGonagall’s office with a smile playing about his mouth and a certain glee in his mannerisms. He met Albus’s glare head on and didn’t falter. Al stood with his back ramrod straight, his black fluffy hair doing little to soften the look of murderous intent about him. Most other students had taken careful steps to avoid the lad in his blackest of moods, but not Scorpius. Never Scorpius. The blond headed straight for him and leant against the wall beside him, tugging a hand through his singed and blackened hair.

“Alright, Potter?” He asked casually, pretending that the smell of burnt hair went entirely unnoticed.

Albus pursed his lips.

“Aw, really, mate? You said you wouldn’t be mad!”

“I said no such thing!” Albus exploded, wheeling on his best-friend. “And you! You said that you would stop doing stupid shit!”

Scorpius looked puzzled by that. He was certain that he had never made such a rash promise in his life.

“Are you angry at me?” He asked, “Because - and don’t take this the wrong way - I’m seeing signs…”

“Take a guess.” Albus replied, voice icy.

“No.”

“Take _another_ guess.”

Scorp recoiled, looking a little wounded. “We got your plants back, Al!”

“You burnt down the _fucking Owlery_.”

“Just a little.”

“You’re still _smoking, Malfoy!_ ”

Scorp looked a little concerned, patting his front down and looking for any lingering embers. “Nope. Al, I think we can agree that you’re being a little melodramatic.”

“You are _insane_ Malfoy. You and Rose!”

“You call it insane, we call it Wednesday.”

“It’s Monday, Scorpius.”

“Is it really?” Scorp was looking decidedly not-sorry.

“How much trouble are you in?” Albus asked, and ah – there was the root of the problem.

“Barely any,” Scorp said breezily. “I think McGonagall found the whole thing a bit of a jolly lark, to tell the truth. Potter-” He looked at Albus beseechingly. “Come on, mate. You would have done the same for me. It’s family, right?”

Albus did not like having his hair ruffled. But some things – like bone crushing hugs from Scorpius Malfoy – just had to be endured.

 

Rose managed to avoid being told off by Albus. She credited this to being the one who left his plants on his bed, carefully swaddled in her protective quidditch gear and with a woolly hat placed over it’s little leaves. She didn’t leave a note, assuming that the big “WEASLEY” across the back of her vest would be enough of a calling card. Sure enough, the next time she saw Albus, he tugged her into a hug.

“You stink,” he’d muttered into Rose’s singed hair.

“You’re a dick.” Rose returned, squeezing him.

“Did you really _knock somebody out_?”

“Fight me.”

“Not on your life.” Albus pulled away, shaking his head and looking disparaging. “I thought we were the ones who looked on whilst Scorp did shit like this? And shook our heads? _And drank tea?_ ”

Rose shrugged apologetically. The common room was full of students coming or going from lunch, and she had spent most of the morning either being yelled at by McGonnogall and dozing off. Right now, the sofa looked like the comfiest place on Earth and she sunk down onto it. She was right – the slightly saggy cushions and the warmth of the fire was the _only_ place she ever wanted to be. Outside, the wind had picked up again. It rattled the windows, and she shifted her shoulders when a chill made it’s way down her spine. “Albus, you’re family – I was always going to do something stupid. Scorp just enabled me – He’s like a gateway drug, you know?”

Albus professed that he did not have a clue what Rose was on about, and that he didn’t want to, either.

“You cannot beat up everybody that you have a problem with, Rose.” He said instead, sliding his bag over his shoulder.

“Not everybody.” Rose agreed, pulling a book towards her from on top of the coffee table. _Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge_ \- It looked pretty good, actually. _Revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes_ \- “But I can try.”

_True love._

_Miracles._

 

Skipping class left Rose with a funny feeling in her tummy. But last night’s party had also left a funny feeling in her head, and her eyes were tired and going sort of blurry and gritty, and she had this weird feeling in her hand from her hastily-repaired knuckles – so on the whole, skipping seemed like a superb idea. She curled herself into a comfortable ball on the sofa, and that was how Scorpius found her later that day. He hadn’t had to look far – Rose was very like a puppy, in that you looked for the warmest place in the house and she had invariably monopolised it.

He came in through the portrait hole to see Fletcher threading her fingers through Rose’s hair, armed with a pair of scissors.

“I’m so _pleased_ you two are going together. I’m going with Finnegan,” Fletcher was saying. “Sean asked last night. At least,” She paused, holding strands of red hair between two fingers, “I think it was last night?”

“You reckon he remembers?”

“Shut up!” Amy looked traumatised until Roses started laughing, “Merlin’s beard, Weasley. You are dead to me.”

“Sorry.” Rose didn’t sound sorry. “Can you just cut it?”

Fletcher lined up the scissors, face the picture of reluctance.

“Are you s-”

“I smell like a barbecue, Ames. Cut it.”

Fletcher closed her eyes, and snipped. Scorpius joined them just as Fletcher reopened her eyes, and gasped happily.

“It’s still the same colour!”

Rose peered up at her. She had had her head in the other girl’s lap, eyes half-closed. Her hands were busy again, turning a dice over and over in her palms. “What did you _think_ was going to happen?” Rose asked, lifting her long legs when Scorp shoved them. He slid in underneath, and she settled them comfortably on top.

“You know, I really wasn’t sure.” Fletcher said thoughtfully. She snipped another tentative piece. Scorpius tried not to wince. “Like, what are we doing here, Weasley? Are we just getting rid of the black stuff?”

“We’re stopping me smelling like a smokery.” Rose said, before looking thoughtful. “Unless – I mean, you could cut more off?”

“No.”

“What?”

“Don’t ask me to style your hair, Rose. I love you, and that’s why I won’t do it.”

“But I’m digging this idea! Hey, Scorp-” Scorpius looked up, slightly warily, from where he’d been watching the fire. “Wouldn’t it look great if I cut my hair to like, here?” Rose said, indicating with two fingers just below her jaw.

“Oh, thank God. I thought you were going to ask me to cut it.”

“Lord, no.”

“It would, sweetheart.”

“Ow!” Fletcher’s hand had tightened at the endearment. Fletcher just happened to be connected to Rose’s hair. “Come on, Fletch.”

“Sorry, sweetheart.”

“Just the black bits, please, you terrible human.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (your wonderful comments make my heart so happy. thank you ♥)


	11. we were damn good dancers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd we're done.
> 
> There's an epilogue written and typed up, because what's better than one happy ending?
> 
> (two happy endings!)

 

Rose stood tucked at the doorway to the Great Hall. Inside, the house elves and professors were a flurry of colourful spring garlands as they transformed the space. The ball was scheduled for five hours from now, with the visitors arriving over the space of the next few hours. Beauxbatons had already arrived, punctual as ever. Albus and Scorp had stood shoulder to shoulder as they watched the performance unfold. Or, Albus had been watching the Frenchwomen descend on them whilst Scorpius watched the Hogwarts first years with glee.

“Look at them!” He hissed to Al. “They don’t know what’s hit them!”

Indeed, the first years had rushed to the stone balustrade and stood, raptured, whilst older students stood heads and shoulders above, peering through the honeyed stone surrounds. The sky blue Beauxbaton carriage had hurtled towards them, borne by a dozen winged horses. Albus had watched the display with a pinch of cynicism – those horses were a flagrant breach of International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, and yet it was Albus’s plants that were potentially illegal. His plants, Albus thought with a wry twist to his mouth, would never be able to hurt anybody. Those bloody horses could potentially _land_ on someone or _eat_ something or-

“If that grumpy little face of yours is because of the pegasi,” Scorp had blithely said, slinging his arm around Al’s shoulders, “just _think_ of the fertiliser they produce.”  And Albus had brightened considerably. He had brightened enough to launch into an explanation as to how they weren’t pegasi, they were Abraxan winged horses, don’t you _listen, Scorp?_

“It’s love at first sight.” Scorp was saying now, gazing fondly at the younger students. “Look at them!” There was a pause. The carriage landed, and the girls spilled out – a sea of cerulean silk and periwinkle hats, followed by the formidable Madame Maxime. “You know what,” Scorp continued, cheerfully.

“Oh, Merlin.” Al said.

“I’m going to break the ice.”

“Oh, _Merlin.”_

Too late. Scorp had looked around himself breezily – Albus had dug the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Hey, kid!”

Albus groaned internally. _Merlin, grant me patience,_ Al pleaded, watching dispassionately as Scorp zoned in on the nearest small student. “Ah, you’re Scott’s brother, right? Tell me - How much French do you speak?”

 

* * *

 

“Higher, Cooper, higher.” Rose watched as McGonagall championed the spring garlands. Orange and yellow flowers had been strung together, their delicate scent filling the room. Enchanted petals had started falling from the ceiling a little while ago, carried down on airwaves that nobody felt. The house-elf in front of the Headmistress scrambled higher up their ladder, raising their rope of flowers by a foot.

“Much better.” McGonagall decided, sounding pleased. “That’s lowered the risk of decapitation almost to nil.”

Rose took a moment to be interested by the “almost.” She knew that outside, the carriages would be arriving, that the Durmstrang ship would be lowering anchor and that Ilvermony students would be suffering from enormous jetlag and systematically removing all “u’s” from the English language. Rose had had a heated argument over the spelling of “colour” just a few years ago, and had enjoyed herself immensely. For the time being, however, Rose had sequestered herself in the warmth of the Great Hall and was content to watch the magic happen.

It was where Scorp found her, several minutes later. He was flushed, hair windblown and tousled. “Durmstrang are here,” He said, sidling up to her. “And I’m not going to lie, Rosie, I think they’ve brought a dragon.”

You’re stereotyping, Malfoy.”

“I’m actually serious.”

“Not buying it.”

“It worked on Elliots!”

“Elder or younger?”

“Younger.”

“She’s thirteen, oh my God, stop lying to innocents.”

Scorpius grinned shamelessly. In the hall, there was a cry of “Not that much glitter!” and both turned to watch with unbridled glee. The breeze that had caught the flower petals had caught the glitter, and there was a fine sheen of gold over everything. Rose’s hair lifted in the breeze, and Scorp looked down at her.

“Merlin,” He said, unable to help himself.

“What?” Rose scrubbed a finger over her nose, scrunching up her face and instantly looking like the scrappy eleven year old that Scorp had first met. “Have I been glittered?”

Scorp considered lying - _you are covered in the stuff, Weasley, you’ll never get rid of it all_ – but instead, he shook his head. It wasn’t that he was growing up (not in the slightest. Later that night, he would dump a fistful of glitter over Al) but he said “Nah, you’re just stunning.” And then turned pale.

Rose gaped.

“Did you-”

“A fuck tonne.” Scorp scrabbled. “A metric fuck tonne of glitter, Weasley. You’re a mess. Get your act together.”

But Rose was grinning wryly, one eyebrow raised. “Thank God you hold it together better than this on the pitch, Malfoy, or you’d be off the team.”

* * *

 

Albus had taken Scorpius’s thoughts about fertiliser to heart. Beaxbaton’s stabled the Abraxan winged horses (reluctantly, with much muttering in French) in the Hogwarts stables, just along from the thestrals. Now, the thestrals were out in the fields, but due to the difficulty of catching a winged horse, they were indoors. Al was fond of the stables – a long, wooden building that stretched on and on. Sunlight streaked through the high skylights, but did little to affect the muted atmosphere of the building. Albus had spent many an afternoon in here before Scorpius had decided that they should be friends – An upturned bucket, a book, his notes; There was a peaceful sanctuary in these walls that always reminded Albus of a church. But churches didn’t usually come with the smell of straw, the whistle of breath through large noses, the rustle and stomping of metal clad hooves. Stables, Albus had always felt, were much, much better.

“Alright,” Al muttered to himself, counting down stalls. The sound of his footsteps on the flagged floor was almost cheerful as he strode confidently along.  “Thestral, thestral – Abraxan.”

The creature in question blinked at him. Soft, dark eyes set back in a striking dappled grey face. “Aren’t you pretty,” Albus breathed, leaning against the half-door of the box. “You are very, very pretty.”

The horse agreed, clearly, as it trotted over to greet him. The sunlight caught the colossal wings tucked neatly against the horse’s back, and Albus practically shivered with pleasure. “Now, horse,” Al started conversationally. “What kind of an impact is your fertiliser going to have on my greenhouse?”

The winged horse either didn’t know or didn’t care. Instead it butted it’s head against Albus’s hand, which was settled on top of the door. Instinctively, Al started smoothing the long face, the horse leaning into his hand. “It’s clearly going to be nutrient rich.” He mused. “But you have a weird diet.”

“Single malt whiskey.”

Albus’s eyes darted around the gloom. “What?” He called. The voice had sounded close to hand, but he couldn’t see anybody. More importantly, the voice had sounded _American._

“I said,” and a short haired, lithe girl stepped out of the darkness. In one hand she held an ornate glass bottle, and the sight warmed Al’s heart. “Single malt whiskey. It’s all they drink.”

“ _Reina_.” Albus said, and it sounded for all the world like _“there you are.”_ “I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“Did you miss me?”

“More than you know.”

“Thank you for the letters,” she reached Albus, and pressed the bottle into his hands. Single malt whiskey. Of course it was. “I appreciated them.”

He’d broadened out since she’s last seen him. He was still slim, still fine boned, and still the most handsome boy she had ever seen. There was a slight weariness around his eyes, though, and it hadn’t been there last year. “But you silly boy – there’s a way to ask a girl to a dance, you know.”

“Is there?” Albus – courteous, kind, funny Albus – didn’t sound the slightest bit interested. Reina could feel him taking her in – the shorter hair cut, the Ilvermorny robes. “I’ve never really known how to get on with girls.”

“I liked the line that likened me to a calla lily.” Reina leant against the door next to him. The horse ditched Albus, swapping his attention freely to the dark haired girl. The French had always been easy in love, Albus supposed. “You know that they’re poisonous, Albus.”

“They’re very pretty.” Albus said casually, watching the horse’s wings. “And they aren’t really poisonous, they’re just an irritant.”

“Did you just call me irritating?” Reina asked, looking at Albus sideways with a smile.

“I think I did.” Al’s smile mirrored Reina’s as he turned to look at her properly. “But you never answered. You never wrote me back. That is irritating.”

“I thought you deserved a reply in person.”

“Honestly Reina, I’d have liked any reply at all.”

“I’d very much like to come dancing with you, Mr Potter.”

Albus’s heart soared. “Well, Miss Kowalski, I’m sure that that could be arranged.”

* * *

Scorpius had been waiting. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, just outside of the Great Hall, waiting for his date to appear. He had tried for the _I couldn’t care less, look at me leaning against this brickwork, I am so laidback right now_ look – but his hand had kept creeping up to run itself through his hair, or he’d straightened his tie, or tugged at his cufflinks. His usual image of nonchalant ease was disintergrating, and his hair was a mess. But he looked decent! Albus had said so, just twenty minutes before. (“Think I need a different tie, mate?” “I think if you keep asking me that, I’m going to strangle you with your tie, _mate_.”) and Albus was always right. So decent it was.

Actually, Albus was up to something. Albus was definitely up to something, and Scorp had been too concerned with whether snitch cufflinks were cliché to grill him properly. The tall blond pushed himself off of the wall, looking around the rapidly filling space for his dark haired best friend. He had a few minutes spare, that was plenty of time to get it out of him-

It was on one of these scans of the hall that he spotted Rose at the top of the staircase. She had paused, one hand on the rail, the other holding her dress up, to talk to Habiba Patil. And to his shame, all thoughts of Albus were gone from Scorp’s head. A black, floor length dress clung to her body. Flaring out from the waist, the skirt was covered in golden flecks. Rose’s slim body was framed by the sculpted bodice, and her muscled shoulders were simultaneously terrifying and one of the most attractive things that Scorpius had ever seen.  Rose threw her head back and laughed, and Scorp realised his mouth was slack. Her red hair spilled down her back in loose waves, offsetting the black. She looked down, and Scorp snapped his mouth shut just as she registered him staring. She swept down the stairs. Clearly chucking brooms around in mid-air had some freakish correlation to walking in heels.

“Evening, Malfoy.”

“Weasley.” They were stars, Scorp realised, on her dress. The dress was covered in stars. He smiled, because of course they were. This was Rose. “You look-”

“What?” Rose challenged, tucking her chin up in the air. She looked, for all the world, like was prepared to deck somebody. Murderous, Scorp thought proudly, and a little regal. “Cut it out, Malfoy.”

“What out?”

“The whole _staring_ thing.”

“But I might miss something. Like, shit – did you not notice how stunning you look right now? Did you not? Because I swear to Merlin-”

“Malfoy. Enough.”

“You’ve got to let me stare, Rosie. We only get this once. We don’t get another World’s Ball. When else am I going to see you with glitter in your hair and wearing a dress like _that_?”

“ _Malfoy.”_ Rose’s hands had gone still, but Scorp didn’t notice. He was still _talking_.

“I want to kiss you.” Scorpius said. “You know what, I’m going to. That’s what I’m gonna do. Come here.”

And, against Rose’s better judgement, she did. When he reached out for her hands, she let him. When he pulled her towards him, she let him. But when he slipped his hands around her back, it was Rose who went up onto her tiptoes, and kissed him. Soft and lingering, Scorpius felt the curve of her smile under his lips and marvelled.

“Will you please,” Rose said quietly, pulling away, “shut up now.”

With glazed eyes, Scorp made some kind of “nergh” noise that Rose took to mean, “ _Why yes, Weasley, because that’s what normal people do.”_

“Well.” Scorpius collected himself, and offered Rose his arm, “Shall we?” and the two took the plunge into the Great Hall, but they did it together.

* * *

Several entrances into the Great Hall have been enough to silence the room, in Scorp’s memory. Beaxbatons manage it every time, there was the one time that the centaur trotted in and asked to see the Headmistress, then there was the dinner when the captain of the Chudley’s Cannons ambled in to give a talk on sportsmanship – Merlin, Albus’s dad took a year off of everbody’s life when he popped his head around the door to drop off Al’s forgotten distillery – but, as egocentric as Scorpius Malfoy has been accused of being, he never expected to be the cause of one such silence.

With his arm linked through Weasley’s they walked into the room, and, immediately, those closest fell silent. The whispers seemed to carry, and the weight of eyes on them was disconcerting. Scorp imagined that he could hear the vertebrate in his schoolmates’ necks cracking a little as they craned around to look. Surely it wasn’t _that much of a spectacle?_

“ _Fuuuuuck_.” Rose breathed. Scorp was concerned for one long moment, until she tightened her grip on his arm. “Let’s do this.” And to Scorpius’s utmost amazement, she stuck on a smile and turned to the nearest girl.

“Merlin’s beard, I love your dress, Sonja!”

And it was like a spell was broken.

“Evening, mate! Weasley, a pleasure.” Scorp found himself being slapped on the back. From the way his skull shuddered at the impact, Scorp knew without looking the identity of his attacker. “Who’s Potter coming with?”

“Hanksy! You know, he wouldn’t tell me.” Scorp returned, smiling widely. “Hell of a suit, buddy. Where’d you find anything that fit?”

“Mum’s knew fella is half giant, he leant it to me.” Hanks said, genial smile widening.

“Are you serious?” Scorp did a quick once over of Hanks’s impressive shoulders. “Are you actually serious?”

Hanks patted Scorp on the shoulder. Scorp wondered if he left dents in the floor. “You make it too easy, mate.”

Scorp narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t trust anything you say.” He said succinctly. “Want a drink?”

Another crowd of students spilled into the hall, and Scorpius felt Rose slip her arm through his. It was a weird kind of thrill – and a thrill that he had never had with Naya. Rose, Scorpius knew, was going to get him into all kinds of trouble. “Look who’s just come in!”

“Where?”

Rose pointed, and then her hand went up to wave. The gold ring on her finger caught in the light as she went “Al! Albus!”

“Oi, Potter!” Scorpius joined in, spotting their friend amongst the crush. “Who is _that_?” He asked aside to Rose. In heels, the foot’s worth of height difference wasn’t as obvious. But she was still a head shorter than him, and it was hilarious. “Who’s he brought?!”

“You’re his roommate,” Rose returned as Albus’s hand went up in acknowledgment, and he started to wave towards them. The girl on his arm wore a rich emerald green dress and had a pixie cut that made her eyes look huge. “You should definitely play mother on his dates.”

“Never seen this one in my life.” Scorp marvelled. “Al, introduce us!”

“Are you going to be nice?” Albus asked, one eyebrow arched. He’d scrubbed up well, Rose thought proudly. His black hair looked marvellous against his tux.

“We’re always nice!” Scorpius looked offended for all of point five of a second. “No, wait, we’re not. We will be nice.”

Albus sighed. “Reina, allow me to introduce my family – and before they say anything else, I’d like to apologise for them- ”

* * *

It was later that night, after the dancing had petered out and students had gone from upstanding members of the wizarding community to far soggier looking members of the wizarding community. Several had collapsed into gilded chairs, and were a far cry from upstanding anywhere. The petals that had been wafting down from the ceiling had gathered in small piles at the edges of the room. Still, the band played – enchanted instruments that plucked and preened themselves, eking out chamber music that was filling the room. It was all, Rose thought to herself, mind muffled around the edges, so very lovely. Scorpius had pressed a kiss against her lips in the moment before he had gone to refill their drinks, and she’d wanted to stay there forever. All night, she’d heard “So, Weasley, are you and Malfoy…” and all evening she’d grinned wickedly and said “Now wouldn’t _that_ be something.”

“I’m going to get us top ups.” Reina said, plucking Albus’s tumbler from his hand. “Same again.”

“Single malt.” Al had said. Rose had watched curiously, aware that there was some joke that she’d missed. “Please.”

And Reina had skipped off to join Scorpius in line for the drinks.

A silence fell between Albus and Rose. Al’s was thoughtful, Rose was just reliving the feeling of swirling around under crystalline chandeliers in an expensive dress with her gorgeous best friend. “Rose, what would you say the height of stupidity is?” Albus asked suddenly. Rose snapped back to reality. He was watching Reina with a look on his face that she had never seen before, and even drunk Rose understood that the question held weight.

“Hmm,” Rose, said following his gaze to where Reina and Scorpius stood chatting as the elf in front of them refilled their goblets. “Hey, Scorp!”

“Yeah, cap?!”

“How tall are you?”

“Six foot three! Why?”

“Doesn’t matter!” Rose turned back to Albus. “Six foot three.”

“I think I’ve fallen in love with her, Rose. And she leaves again in two days. That has to be the height of stupidity.”

Rose wrapped a tipsy arm around her cousin. “Don’t be daft. That’s only five foot seven on the stupid scale.”

Albus smiled miserably. “I thought you said that you didn’t believe in love, Weasley.”

“I don’t. But I believe in you. And you believe in her.”

“And you believe in Scorpius?”

“I do, yeah. I do.”

“But love in general?”

Rose made a face. “I think that it can be horrible and it can leave terrible scars. And I think that it can be wonderful and bring more happiness than anything else in the world. I think that sometimes it’s difficult to tell the difference. But it’s always worth it, Al. No matter the wreckage.”


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bye, guys!

The article started with a half page image of several teenagers in multi-national robes. With their arms around each other and beaming smiles on their faces, it was the perfect shot. Felix had been exceptionally proud of that one. He flicked through the paper, mostly disregarding the words. Words were all well and good, but they were not _art_. Felix captured hearts, captured souls. Felix looked at people and saw the Earth’s wonders. And then he charged an awful lot for the rights to print those wonders.

Nevertheless, Hennequin caught snippets as he skimmed the article – “ _triumph of international spirit and goodwill,” “a night unlike any other,” “more than eight-hundred students and staff,” “the broken chandelier deterred nobody,” –_ until he reached the special feature, a page in. Here, his photos shone in all of their glory. Figures swirled and danced throughout, the cheap paper quality doing nothing to detract from the candid happiness. The paper had chosen one photo to blow up larger than the others, and Hennequin preened, pleased. The photo showed a tall young man with intimidating shoulders and soft eyes spinning a long haired girl in a dress patterned with stars. The black and white of the newspaper highlighted the hollows of her dramatic cheekbones and the beaming smile on her face _shone_. She threw her head back and laughed, and Felix glanced at her companion. There was an easy smile softening the chiselled bone structure – Hennequin tapped his fingers on the table, considering contacting the pair to do a shoot with. They were undeniably attractive. “ _Scorpius Malfoy and Quidditch Captain Rose Weasley enjoyed the festivities. The pair arrived arm in arm and didn’t leave the other’s side. With eyes only for each other, the pair form a formidable team on the pitch – but we at the_ Daily Prophet _speculate that this delightful duo have taken their relationship to a whole new level. This remains unconfirmed, as classmate and GoldenTrio descendent, Albus Potter, told us not ‘to ask me about those two utter idiots.’ Potter was later seen in the company of Ilvermony student Reina Kowalski, the great-great-niece of our own Newton Scamander. It is claimed that the two have been in contact since Ilvermony’s last visit to our shores…”_

Hennequin shook his head, uninterested in the twaddle. The next photo was of the said Potter boy with a bashful smile, being dragged to his feet by a short, dark haired girl. Felix’s pockets had been lined with a little extra at the assurance that he would remember the Golden Descendants were _extraordinarily_ interesting. He remembered this particular trio from the last wedding that he had shot – it had been at a castle in Scotland. Edwrad Lupin's wedding, and when he'd been handed a cheque for his work, the name on it was "Potter." The three had stood with their arms around each other, disintegrating into laughter in the second before the shutter clicked. They had done the same this time;

“ _A photo, you three?”_

_The trio had looked up from their conversation. Weasley’s cheekbones were flushed, and Potter’s eyes were dilated – his smile was astonishing, Hennequin realised, a flash of contagious warmth – “Why not?” He said, looping his arm around the Malfoy. “Tonight, my lads, we are young!”_

_“Al’s drunk!” Malfoy exclaimed, as if it had just struck him. “He agreed to a photo! Did you_ hear _that, Rosie?!”_

_“I did.” Rose said, hooking her arm around Malfoy. “Absolutely shozzled.”_

_“Shozzled.” Scorpius repeated, looking down at Rose. She was doing her best to keep a straight face, lips quirking with the effort._

_“Shozzled.” Albus said quietly, under Scorpius’s other arm. “I am shozzled.”_

_Amidst the howls of laughter, the shutter clicked, and the moment was immortalised. Three almost-adults, their shoulders shaking with barely contained joy._

* * *

 

Draco Malfoy’s breakfast was slowly going cold in front of him. The Daily Prophet had dropped into the post-basket some moments earlier, and Flissy had scooped it up whilst the paper’s screecher owl had shot off.

“Mister,” she’d said, placing it down as Draco ate his breakfast. He’d nodded his thanks, mouth full of toast. Picking up the paper, he swallowed, and vaguely registered his wife sitting down opposite him.

“Anything interesting?” Astoria asked, sounding for all the world as if she didn’t know. Draco lowered the newspaper and peered over the top of it. She wore a soft white blouse that he'd picked up the last time he'd been in Paris, and looked positively angelic.

“Toria, we both know that you organised the run of this.”

Astoria at least had the good grace to wink at him. “Maybe so, but I haven’t seen a final copy. And Merlin knows that I have no control over the writers.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy murmured, returning his attention to the front page. He read the article once, and once again, before thoughtfully setting the paper to oneside and gazing out of the window.

Astoria picked it up and her pleasure was palpable. “I think I’d like this photo in my office,” she said, reaching for the bone-handled scissors that she kept on the breakfast table for just such occasions. She set to work on the photo of her son and Weasley, spinning in eternal, gleeful circles. Astoria wondered if Draco had even heard her, lost in thought as he was. But as she went to stand, he reached out and placed a hand on her arm.

“Why don’t we put it on the fridge.” Draco said, bringing his eyes to meet hers. “Our son deserves pride of place, don’t you think?”

A slow, warm smile spread across Astoria’s highly sculpted face – Scorpius had inherited Draco’s colouring, but that quicksilver smile was his mother’s – “He would be thrilled, darling.”

* * *

 

It was two months later when Rose visited the Malfoy mansion for the first time. Summer had arrived, draping itself comfortably over England. The clematis that wrapped itself around the front door smelt divine, and it was as though the weather was making a special effort. From the moment that Scorpius had held open the door of his horrendously beaten-up Ford, England had done it's best to please.

The redhead walked into kitchen, having been relieved of her bags, and Astoria breezed past. “What can I get you, Rose?” she asked, reaching for a glass. “I have cordial, Pimms, water-” She turned questioningly, and found Rose looking at the photo on the fridge. It was otherwise bare – the photo was held in place with a Gryffindor magnet that Scorpius had bought the pair of them as a joke some years ago – but the photo greeted the couple every morning.

“My Mum and Dad have the exact same photo on our fridge,” Rose said, cheeks flushing slightly at being caught. “They say it’s their favourite.”

“Ah, well,” Astoria said, busying herself with preparing icy glasses of Pimms, “It’s ours as well.”

“No?”

“Certainly. There was another in the article as well, do you remember? Yourselves and Albus. I got hold of the prints afterwards – they’re in my office.”

“Really?!”

“I’ll show you after dinner. Do you think your parents would like copies?”

“They’d be delighted,” Rose managed, and Scorpius walked in on Rose looking as if she’d just seen a basilisk.

“What did she do to you?” He hissed urgently, hand on Rose’s back as he lead her towards to garden.

“Your mother,” Rose uttered, “is an absolute angel.”

 

Later, Astoria caught Scorpius by the arm as he helped clear the table. “Your friend-”

“Girlfriend.”

“- Girlfriend,” Astoria corrected herself. “Is just wonderful, Scorpius. I couldn't be happier for you." 

Scorpius had stood stock still. Reaching up and pressing her hand to his jaw - when did her little boy get so tall? - Astoria took the plates that he'd been holding. "We should really get her parents over for dinner, you know." She's carried on casually, as Flissy set to rinsing everything down. From the kitchen window, Astoria could see her husband nodding along whilst Weasley spoke animatedly. Quidditch. It was bound to be about quidditch.

"Darling?"

"I - oh, fu- fiddle - sorry, dropped the... Did you say that you'd invite the Weasleys over? Did you-"

Astoria turned back to the dining room. Her son was standing there, with the tiniest port glass in one hand and an expression of sheer vulnerability on his face.

"Scorpius," His mother said softly, "It's about time that we adults learnt something new. And that something new could well be starting again."

"Merlin. Well. To the future, then." Scorp said, raising the glass he was holding. 

"To the future." Astoria echoed. A smile warmed her cut-glass features. "Now, shouldn't we join the others?"

 


End file.
